


Awake

by Gearsmoke



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bloodshed, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A figure from Nathan's past returns, and apparently has turned over a new leaf.  This is complicated when Nathan's just figuring out how he feels about his best friend (set after 'Body Drug'.)</p><p>Warnings: Lots of swears.  Lots of sex.  Wankery.  Hamburger time for multiple minor characters. Not-brutal feelings-having.  Possible straying from canon characterization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stabbing Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> So this is actually an older fic. There's a lot of things I would have written differently if I were doing so now. Way too many sex scenes imo... But hey, if you're here for the smut - enjoy!
> 
> Also Nathan says and thinks some things that I don't consider OK, but I feel that he would say and think them. He is not all that enlightened.

Awake

Part 1: Stabbing Beauty

1

Every so often he’d hear it, the little click that repeatedly derailed his train of thought. The tiny metallic gleam that drew his eye against his will. His birthday present, Pickles had said. Crooked smirk even broader than usual across his boyish face. He’d wanted to give Nathan a gift he couldn’t buy for himself. The theory: you can’t buy a friend who’s willing to have a piece of titanium implanted in their own flesh solely to give you pleasure.

The problem was that once it was in, it would be a couple of weeks before the piercing healed enough that it could be used… and the suspense, the curiosity was obsessive, consuming all of Nathan’s attention.

Click, metal against teeth. Nathan’s brow furrowed as he tried not to focus on it. Pickles was talking about the album, the arrangement of songs and the extra material they’d planned to toss in. Skwisgaar was bored, Toki was playing with his DS, and Nathan was being slowly driven crazy by the… click. Murderface was paying attention, just because he wanted to feel like he was involved, although he didn’t really have anything to contribute.

They must have heard it, it seemed to grow louder by the minute. Click. Fuck. Stop listening for it! But if the others did hear it, they apparently didn’t care, nothing was said. The guys were so self-involved, really. They’d never even noticed what was going on under their own noses.

"So eanyways, I was thinkin’ we could put the slaughterhouse treack in after ‘Stabbing Beauty’ an’ you remember when you were talkin’ about aircraft carriers made of ice?"

"Pykrete, yeah. That schtuff is amazing. Do you schtill have a recording of that?" Murderface was picking his grungy nails with his knife as he spoke, and Pickles was trying not to be grossed out.

"Yeap, it’ll be a great segue."

"You got a Schegway? Fuck, I want a Schegway, walking schucks!"

"Ja, I also wants a Sew-gay too!" The blond guitarist was suddenly much more interested.

"No, no guys, segue, like a bridge between two things."

"I schtill want one, though. I’m going to get one with schkulls and schit on it." 

"Muddaface am rights, all dis walkings am craps."

"Yeah, do theat. Nathan? Skwisgaar? Yeh guys wanna weigh in on this ice boat thing?"

"I don’ts care, whatever fills de time, you know?" A bland shrug.

"Why don’ts you asks me, Pickle?" The Norwegian was suddenly indignant.

"Ya weren’t even listening, Toki. Ya were playing fuckin’ Paper Mario."

"It woulds still bes nice if you askeds me. It not likes I’m not right here."

Nathan really didn’t have anything to say, but he did like listening to his bandmates’ lighthearted bickering, it made him feel more normal. More like the bad things that had happened over the last couple of months were gone, completely buried and done with. 

Still, it cut through every time he tried to follow the conversation, and anything he might have been thinking of saying was obliterated. Nathan slowly became tense, irritable, and he found himself wanting more and more to get way from it, the thing that was making him feel like his skin was on too tight. That goddamn click. 

It didn’t let go of him, though. The thought of it clung to Nathan, followed him as he mumbled some excuse and left his bandmates to their chatter. He changed into workout clothes and headed down to the gym, towel over his shoulder. Usually a good weights session would relieve any frustration, but this gnawed at him, even as he lay on the bench with his hands clenching the padded grips of a barbell, translating emotion into physical exertion. The mental images, ideas and imagined sensations crept into his head until all he could think about was that fucking stud, that little round sphere of titanium nestled in the soft surface of Pickles’ tongue. It was no good, he couldn’t even exercise, it was too hard to focus, and Nathan sat on the bench silently for a few minutes before he dismissed the hooded spotter and went back to his room.

Water soaked into his hair, cool and calming, the thunder of it against his scalp drowning out all other sounds, and he let it pour down his back and swirl into the drain for a long time. Nathan just stood there with his forehead pressed against the tile, eyes closed, breathing slowly. It had been over a week since he and Pickles last had sex, and Nathan hadn’t been partaking of his lady fans the way he used to. He found himself increasingly weary of the pretty, shallow, greedy starfuckers he typically brought home. They’d leave the smell of hairspray and body butter in his bed, and the scent seemed somehow cloying and fake now. 

Nathan found himself remembering the last time his clever drummer had sucked him off. A daring handjob in the big dining room just minutes before their bandmates showed up. Memories of all the things that made him want to touch Pickles, taste and smell him, explore all the details of the older man’s body, still somehow youthful despite how hard he’d worked to harm himself. The years were there, albeit subtle, and they were undeniable. In the fine creases around his eyes, a lifetime of small imperfections in his skin, and the faded scar on one wrist that was almost always kept hidden by the drummer’s wristbands, a story of fear and desperation and youthful foolishness in that single line. All the things that affection had made Nathan aware of since they had been sleeping together. Literally sleeping, the larger man cradling the smaller in his arms, staying awake to study the redhead’s face at its most relaxed, most beautiful.

Nathan moaned, only now fully realizing that he had, in his distraction, been masturbating. That he was already flushed and panting with need for release. He pressed one hand against the tile to steady himself and planted his feet slightly further apart, leaning on the wall as he stroked his aching cock, sliding the wet foreskin back and thumbing over the head. He summoned more memories: wiry limbs against his sides; small, nimble hands clutching at his hair; a soft, smooth and slightly pudgy belly under his fingers; the grip and heat when Nathan pushed in, and the way it sounded when his lover came, the moans and fevered howls…

The hairs on his skin were standing on end, and with a loud groan, Nathan streaked the shower tiles with his spunk. "Hnnngh, fuck… fuck!" He stayed there, breathing heavily as the water beat softly against his back. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t enough… but it would do for now.

He had just gotten settled into bed, lying naked with his hair twisted into a towel and a book about the American Frontier resting on his stomach, when his Dethphone rang. "Uuugh." Nathan rolled over and fished around over the side of the bed for his pants. The phone’s spiked sides made it hard to extract from the holster, and it took several rings before he got the pointy abomination up to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Nathan, it’s Charles Ofdensen."

"Uh huh?" He didn’t really want to deal with the manager right now.

"I’ve just gotten a telephone call from the hospital where Rebecca Nightrod is being cared for. She’s awake, Nathan." Charles heard a moaned obscenity on the other end of the line. 

"Seriously? I mean, why now? Seriously." Nathan sat up on the edge of the bed, his calm ruined.

"I’m serious. She wants to see you. I know your … recent relationship… will make this very awkward, but I think you should go." Charles tried not to say anything about what the boys did in private. It wasn’t his place, and it made him care for them not an iota less. But this was something that couldn’t be ignored. Rebecca was Nathan’s publicly acknowledged paramour, and the situation needed to be handled delicately.

"I’ll delay it as long as I can, Nathan, we’re going to have to plan what you’re going to say, how you’re going to deal with this, but you’re going to have to face this, and soon."

Nathan just grunted and hung up.

2

Sitting alone, with his old acoustic, a Fender six-string, cradled in his lap, Pickles ran his fingers over the strings with the gentle assurance of long-missed yet familiar love. The Scandinavians never understood this, they would have only scoffed at him, but the rich, honest tones of steel strings and wood soothed him, reminded him of why he was there, this was real music.

Not that he didn’t love Dethklok, what they made together was raw and visceral and funny all at the same time. He wasn’t even sure if the others realized how funny it was, but being behind his kit made him happy. The thunder of the drums, the blurry wash of endorphins as he pushed himself to beat harder, faster. It was sensual, exciting, but he was getting older, and found himself waxing nostalgic, craving something familiar.

The guitar sang out a melody taken from one of his vinyl records, and he sang with it.

__

Oh father high in heaven;

Smile down upon your son.

Was busy with his money games;

His women and his gun.

Ah, Jesus save me.

It was easier to think, to sort out his feelings here, alone, in his private place, the room he never told anyone about. Even his bedroom wasn’t completely his, he had never felt comfortable adding any personal touches to his quarters, but here the walls were a colourful riot of posters, the faded glory of his early musical heroes. His vinyl records, hundreds of them, stacked in crates against the wall, were lovingly kept in the best possible condition despite decades of playing. The turntable was newer, for the sake of improved fidelity, but the box speakers were vintage, as were the big, thick studio-style headphones sitting atop one.

This was holy to him, his place of meditation and prayer, and God help anyone who tried to fuck with it.

Pickles found himself thinking about Nathan, as he often did. He was still not entirely sure about how he felt. He was infatuated, basked deliriously in the other man’s affection, but he’d long since learned not to trust his emotions. Lust, love, fixation, obsession, they were all so alike, so confusing. But when he pictured the man, the shape of his face, his thick eyelashes and the way his mouth turned down when he was thinking, the rare smile that made Pickles’ heart ache. The big, deft hands that could be so amazingly gentle, the man’s solidity and warmth, the way he’d nuzzle up under Pickles’ throat and kiss the creases of his neck… 

He’d stopped playing, slightly flushed. Realizing how pointless it was worry about it, analyze it like that. Did it matter? He knew Nathan returned his feelings, and that was something he’d never had before, not in the way that he really believed it.

Suddenly remembering he had some hash in a box under the couch, Pickles pulled it out and rolled himself a thin joint. Leaving it on the couch for a moment, he got up and picked out a moody David Byrne album, fitting it onto the turntable and putting on his headphones as he settled back and lit up.

The music was eerie, hypnotic. Repeating samples and thrumming tribal drumbeats that settled into the back of his brain along with the hashish. The rhythms and mellow high dissolved his anxiety and brought new thoughts to the forefront of his mind. All the things he hadn’t yet gotten Nathan to try. The big man was still uncomfortable with certain ideas, but he was young, and by God, Pickles was going to enjoy teaching him.

He undid his fly and slid his hand under the waistband of his briefs, smiling lazily to himself as he slowly rubbed his growing erection. He was able to get hard so much more easily lately, he was drinking less and his body was functioning better because of it. This also, he felt, was because of Nathan, whose name he moaned even when alone, touching himself to the beat of the heady, sensual music.

He was, at that moment, happier than he’d been in years, too many years to count, and he wasn’t going to question that. As long as it lasted, Pickles was going to hold on for the ride. Of course, admitting one’s own happiness, even for a moment, is an invitation to fate. And as it happened, right as the album was trailing off and he was approaching the peak of his own private rhythm, Pickles’ Dethphone rang.


	2. Emergence

Part 2: Emergence

3

Nathan glared out through the small window of the smaller of their two helicopters, frowning at the passage of landscape below. Even though they were covering ground quickly, it was still slow, a jet would have cut hours off their trip. He held up his pocket recorder, "Buy a jet. Buy a bunch of jets. This is too fucking slow."

"We’ll be there soon, Nathan, just relax."

Redirecting his scowl at the manager, "I’d relax if I could have a drink."

"I know, but for the sake of discretion, it’s better if you don’t." Charles had made sure of that, there wasn’t a drop on board, and he knew the singer wouldn’t be happy about that, but if he got drunk, he could say any number of stupid things at the hospital. It was better to nip it in the bud and deal with the fallout.

"Fuck you, I can’t deal with this sober, the woman’s a monster… you’re killin’ me here!"

Charles rolled his eyes, turning slightly so Nathan couldn’t see. "It’ll be over soon. I promise, once we’re done, I will personally buy you a bottle of whatever you want and let the Gears carry you home.

"Damn straight you will." Well, that was something. Just a few hours… a few more hours, and it would be over. He didn’t want to go see her, he could barely stand to think of her name, but he would do it, and she would be out of his life. Nathan resumed his concentrated stare out the window, letting himself think about nothing but the steady passage of flat land sectioned into a mosaic of perfect squares as far as the eye could see.

A place had been cleared for the Dethcopter by the time it arrived at the Cinco Clinic. With careful planning, only a few of the ground crew were killed as the great machine touched down, sucked up into the whirling blades or crushed under the huge treads. All things considered, it was one of their better landings.

Inside, the neurologist in charge of Rebecca’s casefile briefed Nathan, with Charles standing at the large man’s side supportively. The doctor smiled and talked to them in an easy way that Nathan wasn’t used to. It wasn’t often they met someone who wasn’t a fan, and given the circumstances, it was unsettling.

"You must realize, Mr. Explosion, Rebecca’s head trauma was quite severe. She may have permanent brain damage, she may not behave like you expect her to." 

"So is she like, retarded now?"

"I don’t believe so, she seems lucid. And her prognosis is good, so hopefully she’ll be back to normal soon. It’s just the standard briefing in cases like these, in case there is something wrong, so you’ll know what’s going to happen." The doctor handed Nathan a few pamphlets on brain trauma, and the singer immediately passed them to Charles.

The singer rubbed his neck, taking a moment to think about everything the neurologist had told him. "So can I see her?"

Charles put his hand on a thick shoulder, "Are you sure you’re ready for this, Nathan?"

A nod, he wasn’t going to get any more ready.

4

He’d been nervous since Nathan left, twitchy, angry over being left behind, even though he knew exactly why it had to be that way. He sat in the entertainment room, peeling the label in curling strips from his fifth Blue Ribbon, the remains of his the four previous strewn across the couch and floor. Stupid no-longer-comatose bitch. Why did Nathan have to decide to take her back after that fiasco with the hotel guy? It’s not like she was even aware of anything for the last two years.

Pickles’ neurotic mind provided horrible theories about what might be going on at the hospital. What if Nathan said something? What if she found out? What if she blackmailed them? What if it was worse?! He hated not knowing, just sitting there and trying to dull his anxiety with beer was almost as bad as the anxiety itself. Pickles pressed the cold, wet bottle to his forehead. It was stupid. Nathan hated that woman. He’d tell her it was over. And that was it, it was going to be over. His friend would be home soon, and things would be good again.

5

Nathan stood in the hallway ouside the room where Rebecca Nightrod was staying under observation, watching her through the plate-glass door. She was sitting up with a Macbook in her lap. She looked good, all her wounds had long since healed, and without makeup, Nathan found her oddly prettier than he’d remembered. 

Several seconds passed. Charles cleared his throat, "I’m going to wait out here. I’ll be right here if you need me." Glancing briefly at the stack of magazines on the end table next to the ugly plastic sofa, then taking a seat and looking up at Nathan expectantly.

When the door opened, Rebecca looked up at Nathan. The singer had been expecting anger, complaining and demands in that shrill, bitchy tone she was so good at. Any second he’d hear her harping on him, making it so much easier for him to tell her to go shove it… that he had something better now, and she wasn’t needed in his life anymore…

But he was completely unprepared for what actually happened. The door opened, Nathan stepped in to face what he had once called ‘the perfect girlfriend’, and he was greeted with a smile. An honest-to-god happy smile. Rebecca’s face lit up when she saw him, without a trace of spite or guile, and when she spoke, it was like hearing her for the first time.

"Hello Nathan, I’ve missed you so much."

6

Looking at his watch, Charles Ofdensen’s brow furrowed. A lot of time had passed, a lot more than he’d expected this to take, and that wasn’t good. In and out, he’d told the singer. Just tell her it’s over, don’t draw it out, don’t let her get her hooks in you. But half an hour had gone by, and the manager was getting worried. 

There had been no screaming, just the subtle murmur of talking, too quiet to be overheard, even by Charles’ sharp ears. And then it was quiet, for several minutes. He got up to see what was going on, but as it happened, Nathan came out at exactly the same moment.

"Hey, Charles." Nathan’s expression was… strange. Something wasn’t right.

"What’s wrong? What were you doing in there?" The smaller man tried to see around Nathan, worried that something had happened, maybe something very bad.

"I don’t know, it was weird." Nathan chewed his lip, eyes darting between his manager and the door to Rebecca’s room.

"You were talking for a long time. Did you tell her?"

"I… no."

Charles closed his eyes, suppressing a groan. "Why not? What happened?"

" I don’t know!" Then quieter, " I think… I want to go home." Nathan stepped out of the way, and Charles looked in at Rebecca, who was once again immersed in her laptop, seemingly alive and in oddly good spirits for someone who should have just been dumped.

Still, Nathan was ready to leave, and Charles was perfectly happy to do so. The trip back to Mordhaus was quiet, few words were spared between them. Although, true to his word, the CFO bought Nathan a bottle of Cuervo, and the singer drank it.

7

Pickles awoke when a large hand gripped his shoulder and shook him. He’d fallen asleep in the rec room, curled on the couch in rumpled clothes that smelled of beer and sweat. He moaned and blinked up at the dark, looming, comfortingly familiar shape, smiling in relief until his eyes focused and he saw the look on Nathan’s face.

"Oh… gad, sahmthin’ went wrong, didn’t it?"

"Yeah. I don’t want to talk about it now. Come to bed with me?" The way he said it was so gentle, so needy. Pickles nodded, and he was lifted to his feet in strong, sure arms. He could smell the tequila on Nathan’s breath, realizing the big guy was just as drunk as he was, and finding that funny. 

When they got to Nathan’s room, he became intent on kissing every inch of Pickles’ face, smelling him, nuzzling into his hair like a cat, and Pickles laughed at the absurdity and ticklishness of it. "Nate’n, what’s got inta yah?"

"I missed you. Can’t I miss you? I’ve been wanting you so much… I need you." Nathan growled and suddenly Pickles felt teeth on his neck, pressing in hard enough to hurt.

"Hnngh! Ow! What the hell?!" Pickles pushed at Nathan’s chest, but he was unfairly outmatched, and he just found himself being pushed down onto the bed. "Ya bit me!"

"I’m marking you. You’re mine." A wet swipe of Nathan’s tongue over the shallow marks, he’d barely broken the skin, and he was laughing under his breath at what a little pussy Pickles was being about it.

The drummer picked up on it and started laughing too. "Dood, no biting, awreet? Ya don’t need ta mark me, I’m yours, I surrender, take me." He smiled up at the oddly attractive younger man, whose features were so rugged and unusual, yet unmistakably his own. Nobody looked like Nathan Explosion. Nobody could even come close. Overcome with the impulse, Pickles leant up and kissed him, tasting the liquor on his lips, snaring his hands in the cascade of thick black over the singer’s shoulders. Whatever it was that had Nathan uptight, it could wait until morning.


	3. Envy

Part 3: Envy

8

He woke up alone, tangled in the vast red sheets of Nathan’s bed. Through the fog, last night pieced itself together in Pickles’ head. It had been interesting, certainly pleasant, but a little odd in retrospect.

Nathan had been so hungry, so eager to please. The way he’d kissed and touched with such tenderness, it was unlike the guy, who liked to be a little rough with his bandmate because he knew Pickles could handle it. But this time it was all gentle caresses as the drummer’s clothes were pulled away and replaced by broad, warm hands and a seeking mouth against his.

Pickles was too worn out for actual fucking, drunk and tired and drained by worrying, but it was wonderful to just lay there and be touched like that, slowly and intently. Nathan’s hands slid over his shoulders, down his ribcage, up the insides of his thighs. The drummer hissed faintly as thick fingers wrapped around his prick, making it jump to full attention almost instantly. The singer’s teeth nipped lightly across the smaller man’s chest, moving down over his body, and suddenly Pickles moaned in absolute shock at the sensation of a large, hot tongue swiping over the head of his cock. He barely had time to register it before the wet heat took him in, cautious teeth ghosting against the sensitive flesh. 

Up until this point, no matter how Pickles had hinted, Nathan had never been able to handle the thought of putting another man’s penis into any part of his body. It was too gay. As long as he stuck to the ‘male’ sex roles, he could avoid thinking about that. Pickles wasn’t a man in his bed, he was Pickles, he was the exception to the rule. But sucking a dick, that was just something he would never, ever do… Yet something had changed his mind, and Pickles found himself sprawled helplessly across the bed, large hands gripping him firmly by the hips as Nathan tried his damnedest to pleasure him.

It was sloppy, inexperienced and slightly uncomfortable, the man was just trying too hard. But it was forgivable, the fact that he had even wanted to _try_ was a fucking miracle in Pickles’ opinion. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t great, he loved it, he loved knowing that he’d actually gotten Nathan to suck him off, and just the thought of that was doing it for him. He’d moaned and cried out the singer’s name, and in a moment of charity, pushed the big guy away before he came, not wanting to spoil the mood with the nasty surprise he knew semen could be the first time around. Pickles wound up leaving stringy gobs in Nathan’s hair, which he found oddly appealing when he looked up at the big guy, awash with a sense of wonder and completion. 

Maybe it was just the post-orgasmic rush, but at that moment, he wanted to say it, to sob the words over and over into that broad chest, but that wasn’t allowed, even now, even after he’d said it once in a pique of fury, it was too awkward. They could be friends, they could fuck, but they were damned souls, black and brutal. They could not love.

The morning became bittersweet, Pickles crawled out of the big bed and went to take a shower. The bathroom was still hot and foggy from Nathan’s use, towels left damp and bunched up carelessly. The redhead smiled at all the evidence of his lover’s having been there just minutes earlier. When he got out of the shower and found his clothing, the message light on his phone was flashing. Pickles blinked, he didn’t get a lot of messages. He punched in his code and listened.

__

Hey uh, it’s Nathan. I’m going back to the hospital to see Rebecca. I’m sorry, but I have to go. Don’t be mad at me, okay? I’ll be back real soon.

9

Nathan sat in the common room of the Dethcopter I, fidgety and once again regrettably sober. Dethklok’s CFO sat across from him, catching up on some light reading – which for him was a magazine about file encryption technology. The copter was still on the pad, and they were awaiting takeoff. The engines revved to life, followed by the whirring of multiple rotors spinning up… and then abruptly dying.

Charles looked up, confused for a moment, and then Pickles appeared. The dredlocked drummer’s face was livid as he barged in on them.

Completely ignoring the manager’s presence, the angry red-haired man glared at Nathan with an expression rarely seen. "What the _fuck_ , Nate!?"

"Pickles…" Nathan glanced at Charles, then back at his bandmate.

"Don’t fucking start! I get a message on my gahddamn phone!? That’s how ya tell me!?" The little guy could be _loud_ when he was angry, "Ya prahmised me it was over! Ya sware ta me ya weren’t goin’ back to theat bitch! What was that, Nate’n? ya son of a bitch! What was that!?"

"Woah, wait, calm down!" Nathan was pressed back in his seat, actually slightly afraid of the small, angry man. "I’m not going back to her! It’s not like that."

"What’s it like, Nate’n?" Pickles’ grew quieter, but terse with dark rage. "Yer just gonna go pal around wit’ her now? Where do I fit in, huh? Tell me." He paused, closed his eyes for a moment, "Do you love her?"

Nathan flinched, "No! You don’t understand! It’s different, she’s different, like weird different, and I need to be there for her. Like… it’s kind of my fault she’s like that."

"Fuck, Nate, why? It’s nat like ya pushed her down the gahddamn stairs… You didn’t, right?"

"Jesus, Pickles. No, I didn’t. It’s just… I wanted it to happen, I wanted her to fall and break her neck and die. And then, yeah, I know, it’s stupid, but I have to go."

Pickles rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down. "Dood, theat’s really stupid, it’s not your fault. I don’t like this, I don’t want you to go." As if he’d just now noticed the third in the room, he turned to Ofdensen with pleading eyes, "Charlie, c’mon, tell him, help me out here."

Charles shook his head, "I can’t make this decision for you."

Nathan just sat in resolute silence, his lips drawn tight.

"Fine. Fucking fine, Nate. If yer goin’, I’m goin’ with you. Yer nat shuttin’ me out again." Pickles sat down next to Charles, who sighed in exasperation. 

"Pickles, I really have do advise against this. If you slip, it could be a disaster."

"I’m not stupid, Charlie, ya know me better n’ theat."

"You’re right. I apologize. I’m just very concerned right now." Charles folded the magazine and looked at the drummer. Despite all his flaws, his temper, self-centeredness, and bad habits, Charles liked Pickles. He recognized the suppressed intelligence, the honesty and good nature lying hidden under the musician’s outwardly hostile façade. 

Pickles noticed the glance, and returned it with an edge of seriousness. Charles nodded and got up to speak into the telecom to the cockpit. The Dethcopter I roared awake again a minute later, and lifted into the sky.

10

Charles caught Pickles by the upper arm as the drummer moved to follow Nathan, "We’ll wait out here." He received a scowl as the door to Rebecca’s room closed behind the frontman.

"Charlie, don’t be a doosh, I’m nat gonna do anything."

"You can’t go in there, I’m serious."

"I jest wanna see her. I ain’t gonna go in." Pickles pulled away from the manager’s grip, and Charles let him go.

"You’re not going to find what you want, Pickles." He knew it was pointless arguing. 

Pickles stood in front of the glass door, blank-faced as he saw his friend, his lover, standing by the edge of that woman’s bed. He was too close, too intimate, and when Rebecca reached out and touched Nathan’s hand, Pickles realized how much he hated her. The way she smiled at Nathan, eyes wide with adoration, how horribly wrong it was to see that expression on her face… and oh god, Nathan was smiling back. Pickles’ breath caught in his throat, and he slid away from the door, bracing himself against the wall and shuddering.

When he looked back at Charles, the manager’s face was lined with regret. It had been a mistake letting Pickles come with them. The poor guy looked like he was going to throw up. "How about we go somewhere else for a while? Let them talk, we’ll come back-"

"Shut the hell up, Afdensen!" Pickles screwed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth for a moment, and then suddenly he was himself again. "Oh jeeze, I’m sahrry. Yeah… let’s just go. I need a drink."

The manager nodded. He left a sticky note, acquired from reception, on Rebecca’s door, and they left the hospital. Charles knew this was going to be one of those nights. Pickles was going to be a wreck, and he’d wind up taking care of the guy. But really, he’d resigned himself to this back on the Dethcopter.

11

As expected, ‘a drink’ translated into about two dozen drinks, and Charles had had to drag Pickles off to the most secluded booth in the pub to avoid being overheard. The place wasn’t crowded, but the drummer had been recognized despite having shoved his dreds up under a newly purchased green army cap. They would have to be circumspect, which was nearly impossible once the whiskey kicked in.

Charles was sipping a highball of cognac over ice. Even though none of the brands the pub carried were up to his usual standards, he knew it’d be easier for him to deal with Pickles if he were a little less uptight. About two hours in, Pickles was ranting half-coherently about suicide.

"You don’t really mean that."

"Don’t yew tell me what I mean! Yer not my brain… Ugh. I can’t do this anymore, Charlie, jest take me sahmwhere an’ fuckin’ shoot me. Bang bang, dead. Worm food. Food for worms. Right now, let’s go." Pickles tried to get up, but a wave of dizziness put him right back on his ass.

Charles frowned, "You’re just drunk."

"I have to make it really Metal, I have to…" The drummer coughed and leaned forward onto his elbows, shoving the empty glasses out of the way. "What’s a good way to die? I want people to say, hey, dat Pickles, he died like a fuckin’ man. He’s my fuckin’ hero! And den dey kill demselves to be like me. Heh."

The other man shrugged, figuring it might help to play along, "Getting eaten by something always gets the public’s attention. Some kind of vicious animal, we could go to Africa and get you eaten by lions."

"Oh gahd, theat would be brutal." Pickles paused, burped, then contemplatively mumbled, "It’ll prob’bly hurt like hell."

"I imagine so. It’d be a slow, painful way to go."

"Mebby sahmfin’ feaster, liiike… uhhhh." The drunken man slurred, coming to the end of his resistance. "Oooah, I coul’get killed by th’ Deffth…Dethcopperrrr. Bladesh swoosh… N’guts flyin’ eeeeeverywhearrrr, bloosh! Blood." Pickles put his forehead on the table and let the world blur away.

Charles watched Pickles slump forward. He was almost used to these melodramatic fits, as unsettling as they were. This wasn’t new, not even as recent as his relationship with Nathan. He just wasn’t stable, some random misfortune would send the drummer into a deep depression, and Charles would call the hospital and have them stand by. The manager had found him close to death more than once. Pickles would call him, desperate, wanting so badly to make it all stop, and he’d wind up needing his stomach pumped or his blood transfused.

Yet for all that, he resisted when anyone actually tried to help him. Something he’d never talk about weighed so deeply on the red-haired man, something that made him feel like he deserved what he got. It made Charles feel terrible, futile, unable to do anything but sit with and listen to this damaged human being. Did he even know? It seemed unlikely, and suddenly the manager needed to tell him.

He reached out and shook Pickles’ shoulder gently. The drummer was long passed out, drool puddling under his cheek. Discarding the CFO’s businesslike stoicism for a moment, Charles leaned forward and whispered softly.

"Pickles, listen to me. It’s important, you need to know this. You are loved."


	4. Guilt

Part 4: Guilt

12

When Charles awoke, he was laying on the couch in the Dethcopter’s common room. Pickles was curled up against him, still asleep, one arm slung over Charles’ chest, and his head tucked under the crook of the other man’s arm. 

Looking down, squinting slightly without his glasses, Charles noted his jacket, tie, and shoes on the floor. His shirt was half unbuttoned, and he suspected the drunken drummer of causing that. He focused on Pickles’ face, reaching down to gently brush a wayward dredlock out of the way. This closeness was strange, yet it felt so nice to hold someone, and the band’s manager wished to God that he could allow himself to feel something more than responsibility and detached fondness towards the boys, his boys. He loved them all in his way, but he couldn’t let himself be a friend, much less anything more, to any of them.

But while Pickles slept, fingers curled against his manager’s rumpled shirt, Charles indulged himself in a moment of affection, smiling as he ran his hand over the rough ropes of the other man’s ginger hair, stroking over the curve of his spine between thin, wiry shoulders…

"You look cute like that."

Charles nearly leapt out of his skin, and his startled jerk half-woke Pickles, who rubbed his hand over the CFO’s chest and made a confused noise at the unfamiliarity of the muscular yet slender body he found himself touching. Charles heart raced as he realized Nathan had been sitting across the room, still and silent as death, watching them both for hell knows how long. The brown-haired man felt for his glasses case, and found it tucked under his hip. 

When he could see clearly again, Charles instantly regretted it. The look on Nathan’s face made his stomach fall, weighted by imminent dread. It wasn’t an expression of anger, as Charles would have expected. It was so much worse than that. It was _nothing_.

Pickles had come around, and upon realizing whom he was cuddling, pushed himself away from Charles’ side with a confused and unhappy moan. Charles sat in silence for a long minute, until he noticed an odd coolness spreading against his thigh. As the heat of the other man’s body faded, it became obvious that the side of Charles’ leg was wet. He glanced at Pickles, whose head was bowed with realization, staring at his knees as his face turned a deep, embarrassed shade of red.

The CFO just sighed lightly, "It’s alright, Pickles, it happens."

Nathan blinked, "What?"

"Nevermind. It’s nothing important."

Pickles nodded, biting his lip, this kind of thing was just one of many reasons all of Dethklok’s larger vehicles kept extra sets of clean clothing, for the entire band, as part of their standard inventory. But he was mortified at having soiled Charles as well as himself. He got up and excused himself to change, and the band’s manager and frontman were left alone together.

Nathan looked at Charles with that same cold, blank stare. "Looks like you guys were really getting friendly last night, huh?"

"We went drinking. Pickles got upset when he saw you with Miss Nightrod, and I took him to a bar." Charles took a deep breath, "I know I shouldn’t have, but I had a few drinks too, and I fell asleep while I was waiting for you to get back. He must have crawled up against me after that."

"Yeah, I get it. He’s needy like that. But I need you to tell me nothing else happened last night."

"Nothing happened, Nathan, I don’t feel that way about him." Charles fixed his eyes on the big singer in what he hoped was a decisive, convincing way. In all honesty, he never really allowed himself to think about how he felt when it came to the boys. It wasn’t practical, no matter what he found there, it could never happen, not as long as it was his job to take care of them.

"Okay. I believe you." Nathan paused, and Charles thought the conversation was over. He got up, wanting a change of slacks himself, when Nathan spoke again, "Ofdensen." Charles stopped, and Nathan stood up, closing the distance between them to loom over the shorter, compactly built businessman. A broad, paw-like hand clamped over one of Charles’ shoulders, and the singer’s intense green eyes locked onto his own, a direct and inescapable stare.

Nathan’s voice was quiet, but the threat in it was icy-clear, "You weren’t drunk when you woke up. And if you _ever_ touch him again like you did this morning, I will kill you."

Charles looked right back at Nathan, and in an even tone, simply told him, "Understood." He sounded calm, but when the massive vocalist left him there, he was shaking.

13

Nathan found his bandmate in one of the small bedrooms reserved for the band in the upper rear of the copter. They had been strategically located within the aircraft to be in the safest possible place if the great metal beast should crash. Which meant no windows, but the rooms were comfortable enough, and mercifully private.

Pickles was not in any mood to talk, however, and he just moaned and rolled over, burying his head in his pillow when Nathan sat down next to him. The drummer had stripped down, leaving his dirty clothes on the floor, and the rank smell of them hung in the air. Nathan wrinkled his nose, but ignored it, reaching out to put his hand on the redhead’s bare, pale thigh.

"Please don’t, Nate. Don’t touch me." Angry and pleading at the same time, trying so hard to keep himself together.

"Hey… Come on, what’s wrong?" Nathan was trying to sound soothing, but it came across as condescending, the tone was the same as the when the big guy tried to cajole a dog, or a child, and Pickles tensed in irritation.

"Fuck you, dat’s what’s wrong _._ Where da hell were ya last night? Wit’ yer _girlfriend_?"

"No. I went out." Nathan didn’t want to get into it, but Pickles was so damn headstrong. "I had to think about some stuff."

"Makin’ wedding plans already?" He knew he sounded childish, but he didn’t care, his head hurt and his stomach hurt, and he smelled like urine and stale alcoholic sweat, and the world could just go to hell.

"God, stop being like this." Nathan leaned on his elbows, "Will you just listen for a minute? I went out, I walked, I thought about stuff. About Rebecca, and you, and me, and just everything." He stopped and glanced at the naked drummer, who didn’t say anything, so he went on. "She’s just different now, she’s like a different person. A better person, it’s like she has a second chance… and I… I like her this way."

Pickles choked back an angry noise. 

"I’m not going back to her, it’s over. I told her yesterday, I was like, moving on, and she should too. It was weird, she didn’t get mad or anything, but then she asked me to help her get her life back together." A deep breath, this was a lot more talking than he was used to. "I feel bad for her, I’m like, the only person who came to visit her. Her fuckin’ parents even moved to Long Island while she was in the coma, they sold that stupid house with all the stairs. I never understood that place anyway, I mean what the fuck, stairs, right?"

"Gahd dammit, Nate, what are ya tellin’ me here?"

Nathan chewed his lip, "I told her she could come stay with us."

Pickles’ face scrunched up against the pillow and he pushed himself upright, fighting back a wave of nausea as the Dethcopter lurched slightly, "Ugh… Are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me!? How could ya do deat?!"

"It’s not a big deal, Pickles. It’s just for a few days, and she’ll be gone after that."

"She’s getting’ her claws into ya, Nate’n, ya just can’t see it. She’s playin’ ya wit’ dose sugary smiles n’ shit. She’s ganna eat ya alive, and, ugh, I can’t… I can’t help ya… Get away from me, I can’t even look at yeh aenymore… I’m, uh… I’m ganna go throw up." 

A tremor passed through the aircraft as it touched down on the pad at Mordhaus, and Pickles paled, struggling upright and then sliding down to his knees, clutching the edge of the bunk and heaving his stomach contents onto the floor there. Nathan winced, feeling nauseous himself, watching his friend’s shuddering back, the wretchedness of it, and feeling the black pit of guilt within him grow ever deeper. 

14

"If you loves dat guitars so much, why don’ts you go fucks it!?"

"Huh, if it had a pussy I woulds! And it will be ones more den you ever gets, Toki!"

The two guitarists were sitting at either end of the big couch, arms folded, watching footage of themselves on the big television, playing a stadium show in Indianapolis. 

Toki huffed, "Fucks you, Skwisgaar."

"Ja, you wishes, yous already jealous of de guitar, ah?" The blond stroked the neck of his Explorer, grinning smugly.

"Shuts up! Why you gots to be so mean? I contactibrutes to de band, I tries real hard, and yous justs always gots to be a real jerk!" Toki’s voice rose into a petulant whine, "I knows I ams never goings to be as good like you, I knows! Yous don’t gots to put me downs all de times."

"Yous so wrong, little Toki. I do gots to, I reallies do."

Before Toki could say anything else, Nathan turned up, scowling, and sat between him and he other guitarist. "Oh… Hi Nat’an, I hears you gos to sees your girlfriend."

The singer shrugged tensely. "She’s not my girlfriend."

"Hey, good! She’s totally sluts, good you gets rid of her."

Nathan growled and put his face in his hands.

Skwisgaar eyed the brown-haired Norwegian over Nathan’s back, "Uhh, maybes you don’ts needs to be talkingks about dis right now, ja?" The Swede made a gesture, hoping Toki would get the hint.

Toki was quiet for about ten seconds, fidgeting for the last five, before he said, loudly, "Skwisgaar is being a dildos, makes him stop."

Nathan tossed his head back, " _AAAAAAUUUGH!_ " The singer got up and left the wide-eyed guitarists to their bullshit. Not having the patience to deal with them, or anyone else for that matter, he made tracks to his private quarters as quickly as his tired body could take him there.

In the entertainment room, Skwisgaar looked at Toki, "See what yous dids?!"

15

Charles didn’t see Pickles leave the Dethcopter. After about an hour, he reboarded the aircraft to see if the drummer was still in there, possibly unconscious somewhere. He found Pickles sitting on his bunk in a room that smelled positively vile. He looked terrible, eyes wide and red, vomit clinging to his beard. He had managed to get a clean pair of underwear and jeans on, and then just gave up on dressing himself.

Charles covered his mouth and nose with his tie, "Pickles, you have to get out of here. Come on."

"Charlie, I… can’t."

The manager watched the musician, not wanting to get too close, afraid now, not only of himself, but also of Nathan. The band had threatened him in the past, on numerous occasions, but the threats had always been idle, almost joking… this time, he believed it. 

"Pickles, seriously, it smells disgusting in here, and you look like hell. If you want to talk, we can go into my office, we can talk there. Just, please, let’s both get out of this room before I pass out, okay?"

Pickles made a dry, pathetic sound and nodded. He shoved his bare feet into his sneakers and followed Charles off of the copter. The dredlocked redhead was wavering slightly, occasionally putting his hand on Charles’ shoulder to steady himself, and even that made the manager’s stomach tighten anxiously.

Since Mordhaus was, to be blunt, enormous, there was a network of mall-style shuttle vehicles standing by at any given moment, and one arrived within minutes of being called, saving them the long walk to the manager’s office. Still, it felt like it took hours to get there, and Charles kept glancing at Pickles, who had huddled up into the seat, sick and terrified.

When they arrived, the manager guided Pickles into his office and let him collapse into the plush leather chair opposite the desk. Charles sat in his own chair, smoothly taking up the role of counselor as he folded his hands in front of him and waited.

It took a while, Pickles just looked around, avoiding eye contact, chewing the insides of his cheeks until they were raw. Eventually he said, quietly, "I think I’m a bad person."

It almost startled the manager, "Why do you think that?"

"After I, uh, left yeh an’ Nate, dis mornin’, I went upstairs and I got some clean clothes, and… I jest kinda started thinkin’, ya know? " He looked at Charles, who nodded for him to continue.

"It’s creazy, I have so much money, so much power, but I never use it. I could get away wit’ anything, do anything I want… But I know it would be _wrong_. Even though I know I couldn’t get in trouble, even if I tried, who’d arrest me? I’m untouchable! Dethklok owns da whole fuckin’ world, right? Governments, businesses, public servants, dey all werk fer us…"

"Well, not exactly, Pickles, but you’re right, you are very powerful, and it’s unlikely any judge would prosecute you. I’ve had no problem keeping you out of trouble for your drug habits. But why are you thinking about this?" Charles had a feeling he knew where this was going, and it was worrisome.

"I was jest thinkin’. I mean, if I wanted ta do sahmthin’ really bad, like… sahmthin’ I’d go ta jail fer, you’d take care of it, right? You could make it go away. Nobody would even have ta know about it."

"Pickles…"

"Jest tell me, Charlie."

"Nobody would ever know but us."

 


	5. Regret

Part 5: Regret

16

Two days later, Rebecca Nightrod arrived at Mordhaus with her few remaining possessions. Yet despite her ordeal, she was smiling, friendly and polite, thanking the driver and the Klokateers who showed her to her room, which had been furnished for her in the guest wing.

When Nathan came to see how she was doing, Rebecca had no complaints, she was just so grateful to have somewhere to go in all the confusion. There was no discussion of their relationship, it was a blank slate, she’d said. And as they talked about other things, Nathan began to relax around her. He agreed to go shopping with her, as she had no clothing but those she wore out of the hospital, and he found it almost pleasant, which surprised him. She was actually listening to his suggestions, responding to his input, and generally treating him as if he were a person.

Even Rebecca’s taste in clothing had apparently changed, and she wound up with a wardrobe Nathan quietly approved of, lots of black and denim and leather, heeled boots and clingy shirts that flattered her chest. She had her hair cut in a spiky, layered style, and in her new clothes, she had metamorphosed into someone who looked like she belonged in the company of rock stars.

Toki and Murderface whistled and appreciatively when they returned to Mordhaus. The tall blonde woman’s new look was striking, attractive and sexy without being slutty, and Skwisgaar found himself watching her with new interest. After all, if Nathan was done with her, she was fair game.

Rebecca quickly charmed the two Scandinavians, and even Murderface had to admit to enjoying the woman’s presence, her easy laugh and relaxed attitude around him. She didn’t recoil from the bassist as so many pretty ladies did, and he appreciated that. Toki liked her sense of humor, she laughed at the same crude jokes the boys did. And Skwisgaar, well, he liked her tight t-shirts. 

Nathan watched the woman chatter and joke with his bandmates, and felt an odd twist of emotion in his gut. Something he couldn’t define, and that bothered him a little. Still, he liked seeing Rebecca act happy, it made him feel better. She’d be gone soon, he told himself, and with her, his burden of guilt.

17

Pickles was not there to see this, having retreated to his hidden sanctuary the minute Rebecca had arrived, coming out only to get food or use the bathroom. Chanting to himself, trying to calm down, he rolled half a dozen joints and smoked them down in succession. But all he managed to do was to get so blurry and distracted that he let the stylus of his record player bounce off its cradle and drag a deep scratch across his rare old copy of ‘Bitches Brew’. 

For a long time, he just sat and stared numbly at the marred vinyl as if willing it to heal/ He was unable to fully accept this, any of it. The woman in his home, how she’d been monopolizing Nathan’s time in that harmless, friendly way… how innocent it seemed, giving him nothing logical to focus his hate on, and he shook with anger. He clutched the ruined record in both hands and, bringing it down over his knee, snapped it into three pieces, which he threw on the floor.

Still, there was nothing for it. He wouldn’t go out there, he wouldn’t face Nathan or his ex-girlfriend friend, he knew he’d just make an ass of himself. So he stayed in his vinyl room almost constantly, feeding his hours to the drugs and music, and the new Xbox 360 he’d installed. You could eat through a lot of time playing Grand Theft Auto while stoned. 

It was better, he figured, to distract himself, to keep himself from thinking about what he was increasingly convinced he wanted to do. The horrible, unspeakable thing that he hated himself for even considering. His upbringing, every moral fiber, every life lesson he’d ever learned told him it was wrong, it was the worst of all possible sins. Yet he couldn’t shake it, the idea consumed him, slowly creeping in no matter how hard he tried to occupy his mind. And even without being aware of it, Pickles was making plans.

18

Days went by, and Nathan hadn’t seen or heard from Pickles. He left messages on the drummer’s phone, searched all the places he usually hung out, and when he realized he couldn’t find his friend anywhere, panic set in. He knew Pickles was emotionally unstable, he knew how much having Rebecca there upset him, what if… What if…?

He dialed the number to Charles’ cell and let it ring, biting his lips nervously.

"Ofdensen here."

"Hey, uh, it’s Nathan. Have you seen Pickles?"

"No, I haven’t. When was the last time you saw him?"

Nathan thought, "Three days ago, just before Rebecca got here."

"It’s probably nothing, Nathan, he’s probably just hiding. But I’ll see if I can find him, just to make sure he’s alright."

The frontman was shivering with fear, and it came out in his voice, "Call me, let me know as soon as you do. Please. I need to know he’s okay."

"Nathan? You care about him a lot, don’t you?"

"Yeah, I... I mean, he’s… he’s my friend."

Charles breathed deeply, Nathan was trying so hard to avoid his feelings, but the singer’s tone, the fear in it, told him that ‘friend’ was understating the obvious. "Have you told him that?"

"I guess? Not really… But he knows, I mean, we’re… we did things."

"Those things aren’t the same as knowing someone cares about you."

"But we… nevermind. Please, just find him. I’ll… I’ll tell him." Nathan hung up and leaned against the wall, finally starting to piece things together. Rebecca. Pickles hated her for what she’d done to Nathan, because the drummer loved him. Even when he’d gotten the other guys to knock Nathan out and torture him, it was an act of love, however twisted. Pickles was undeniably fucked up, and he could be a real little dick sometimes, he used misanthropy like a shield, hiding behind smart-ass remarks and antagonism. But he tried to be a decent person, to be likeable, to make people happy. He wanted so badly to be loved that he’d let himself be hurt, over and over, in pursuit of it.

And Nathan was hurting him again. _What am I doing?_ He pressed his forehead to the wall, choking on his emotions. It was so not Metal, getting all weepy like this, it made him feel weak and foolish… But for what he’d done, for his friend, he let the tears come.

19

He knew about the drummer’s secret haven, as it was his business to know every inch of Mordhaus, inside and out, so it was there that Charles immediately went looking for Pickles. There was no answer when he knocked, but the CFO had an override for the electronic lock, and the door slid open. The air that spilled out was thick with pot smoke, and the usually pristine room was now cluttered with trash, dirty plates and unwashed laundry. It was amazing how much of a mess one person could make in three days. 

The absentee musician was sprawled unmoving on the couch, wearing his headphones and oblivious to the world, including the manager’s presence.

Charles leant over and shook the redhead, "Pickles."

"Hnn." Pickles blinked awake and looked up at Charles in dismay, his sanctuary had been breached. "Dood, how’d you get in here?"

"I have access to every room in the complex, I have to. I’m sorry I had to intrude, but you’ve been down here a long time, and it’s my job to make sure you’re alright. Nathan is worried about you."

"Da fuck does he care? He’s gat wonderful Rebecca now, I hope dey’re fuckin’ happy." Pickles sat up and rubbed his temples. "Do ya know when she’s shippin’ out?"

"I don’t. But Nathan does care, and I think he wants to talk to you."

"Fuck him."

"Pickles… When he called me, looking for you, he was scared."

The drummer hunched. Fuck, just what he needed. "Good. Whatever. I’ll ta’k ta him when I feel like it. Tell him I’m fine. I don’t need him watchin’ out fer me."

Charles nodded, "I’ll tell him you’re alright." He didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one, which meant it was time to leave. Pickles was angry, but he wasn’t acting like he usually did before he tried something stupid. There was a cold edge to him, something that bothered the manager as he locked the door behind him and returned to the more traveled parts of the complex.

Pickles scowled, he didn’t like knowing his secret room wasn’t as secret as he’d thought. Charles could be trusted if anyone could, but it stained the tranquility of it. Even this had been taken from him, and no matter how much space and privacy the manager gave him, it would never be the same.

He thought back to his earlier conversation with the CFO, about how he was practically immune to the law, above it, and how he had only just begun to understand the vast implications of that. And in particular, he remembered that Charles still had his gun, had confiscated it during one of Pickles’ tantrums, and never returned it. Which was really just as well, but now the drummer was thinking about it, wondering where it was.

20

It was dark, cold, and the air stank of rust and decay and fear. She was confused and hurt, tied and helpless on the dirty concrete floor. Blonde hair hanging in dirty tatters, clothing torn and soiled, she trembled in fear. A dim light bulb hung high overhead, throwing her face in shadow, but her eyes shone out, wide and wet and pale.

He had her, and his grin was pure cruelty, his teeth sharp and predatory. He stood in half-light, shirtless and sweating despite the cold. His green eyes narrowed on her, conveying his loathing at the way she shook and whimpered, knocked down yet still clinging to hope, pleading. _Don’t hurt me_. She was disgusting, all but begging to be put out of her misery. But it wasn’t enough to kill her, he had to make it slow, he had to feel her break in his hands. He walked around her, watching her, seeing her eyes follow him. 

This was the bitch who’d made him suffer, and he’d make her suffer in return. He’d inflict his pain tenfold upon her. She deserved this, and while he knew he had no right to be her judge, to be the one to punish her, he felt it was forgivable, even noble, to sacrifice part of his humanity so that she might know her sins.

No words were spoken as he drew the knife, letting it gleam in the dull light. He slid the blade under her blouse, cutting away the fabric and exposing that creamy, only slightly bruised canvas of flesh. This needed to be art, he was going to make a fucking statement, and she was going to be a masterpiece when he was done with her.

He put the knife into his mouth as he crouched down to touch her, sliding rough, callused hands over the softness of her body, imagining her tortured moans to be sounds of pleasure, and his body responded to the fantasy. Gripping her by the hair, he pulled her head back. She choked around the knotted rope in her mouth, sobbing for mercy, but that was the best part. He spat into her pretty face. She looked so innocent, so harmless there, half-naked and afraid. 

He took the knife and pressed the blade into the flesh of her upper arm. She cried out as he drew a curving line that beaded red and overflowed. Her blood, the sight of it made his heart twitch. He needed more of it, and he cut into her chest above the swell of her breasts, watching the droplets well and flow down into her cleavage. Each line earned him another sobbing, muffled cry, echoing off the high walls in this dark place where nobody but him would hear her.

His heart was pounding, breath coming ragged and excited, his cock throbbing hard as he took his revenge, his justice. It was such a sick turn-on, and he felt like a demon had possessed him when he raised the blade a final time and brought it slashing down across the blonde’s perfect white throat, moaning and thrilling to the hot rush of life spraying out across his bare chest.

21

Nathan’s eyes flashed open. Suddenly awake, jolted out of sleep, heart pounding. He was in his bed, in a cold sweat. His mind cloudy and churning, full of disturbing images that broke and scattered as he tried to remember what they were. Had there been blood? Screaming? Weren’t there always in his dreams? But something about this one had been so much worse. It was fading too quickly, but the unease, the sickly knot in his stomach stayed.

He felt something move next to him, and realized there was someone in his bed. He reached over and touched the smaller, sleeping body, but it wasn’t Pickles. Female curves and long, thick hair, and then the scent he’d forgotten about in the long years since he’d smelled it. Almond and cherry body butter, the same kind she’d always used.

He tried to think. The night before was a blur, half-recalled images and sounds. He’d been anxious, even after Charles had told him Pickles was alright, and he’d had a few beers. Of course, given his size and habits, it was his own definition of ‘a few’, which would be more accurately described as ‘quite a few’, but enough to black out? He watched the woman in horror. He couldn’t remember any of it. How had he let this happen? Oh shit… oh shit!

Beside him, Rebecca stirred, shifted position slightly, and drifted back into peaceful slumber.


	6. Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get really heated when Pickles' jealous temper overtakes his sensibilities.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, suicide.

Part Six: Defeat

22

A week later, Rebecca was still at Mordhaus, and had showed no signs of preparing to go home. The two guitarists didn’t mind, they were fond of her, but Murderface was starting to get ansty. The bassist didn’t like when plans changed. And even though she was nice to him, in the depths of his scarred heart, having a woman around made him anxious, just because she _was_ a woman. Still, he enjoyed her presence, something in the way she spoke to him made him feel better about himself.

Charles was also concerned by Rebecca’s extended stay, especially because it was accompanied by the band’s frontman going into a deep broody silence whenever she wasn’t around. A cloud hung over Nathan, yet he still spent most of his waking hours with Rebecca, doing the things she enjoyed. It was almost like it had been before the coma, except she was always so pleasant about it. Not a shrewish word, not a catty remark came out of her. Yet somehow, Nathan was once again whipped.

Pickles had finally come out of his sanctuary a day earlier, but now he just stalked around the quiet halls of Mordhaus with a disturbing look in his eyes. It was creepy, to be honest, and Charles didn’t like running into him. Every time he saw the drummer, he’d get this strange look, like Pickles wanted to say something, but it would fail in his throat, and he’d lower his head and walk away.

No work had gotten done since Rebecca had woken up, the woman had everyone completely preoccupied, one way or another, and she had slipped in almost effortlessly, had become part of their lives. Soon even the Klokateers started to respond to her as if she were one of their masters.

Her sweet smile was a weapon more powerful than anyone could have imagined, and she had conquered her targets with ease. She had Nathan, and three out of the other four boys under her thumb. Even their manager, whom she knew was still wary, deferred to her because Nathan did.

But there was still the drummer. Pickles could be a problem. Rebecca knew he hated her, and was just waiting for a chance to undo everything she’d achieved. He was haunting the halls of Mordhaus like a pale Irish-American ghost, and Rebecca Nightrod didn’t like it. Ghosts had secrets, and they’d spill them at the most inopportune time. He’d have to be dealt with, one way or another.

23

He couldn’t stand it anymore, he needed to talk to Nathan, he needed to make things okay again. It didn’t matter if his stupid ex-girlfriend was playing queen of the shitheap, Pickles was willing to let it slide if he could just have Nathan’s strong arms hold him, feel that firm mouth on his, smell the loamy musk of the singer’s skin... He missed it so terribly it made him ache to remember. Once again, he was willing to let himself be hurt, just so he wouldn’t feel so alone.

Figuring it was about time, the drummer showered and trimmed his beard, looking prettymuch his usual self again, except for the exhaustion showing in dark circles and lines around his eyes. He hadn’t slept well, even with the help of good hashish and whiskey, he’d always wake up in a panic a few hours later. The stress, the worry was killing him, he couldn’t put this off anymore.

It was harder than he expected. Pickles had made it all the way to the hall outside Nathan’s door, and just… stood there, rubbing the metal stud in his tongue against the back of his teeth nervously. What was he going to say? What if Nathan didn’t want him anymore? _Deep breaths… Okay, you can do this_.

And he was almost at the point where he _could_ have. He’d been standing there in silence for a good two minutes, and he’d actually gone right up to the door and raised his hand to knock when he heard voices from inside Nathan’s room. Pickles leant in close. Nathan’s voice and… a woman. That woman, he realized. He hadn’t actually spoken to her since she’d awoken, and the tone was unfamiliar, startling him.

Rebecca was easier to make out, her voice being higher, "Why does it bother you now?"

Mumblemumble, "It was supposed to be over, it’s not right." Nathan’s gravelly tone.

"But you enjoyed it, we both enjoyed it. It’s been a long time, why shouldn’t…"

More mumbling.

"It’s not like it was, I’ve changed. Blank slate. We could just pretend that never happened."

"No, seriously, I shouldn’t have…"

"Oh, sweetheart. I understand, I feel bad about that too."

Mumble.

"Why don’t we just…" The voices trailed off, replaced by soft sounds of motion.

Pickles had turned white, shaking, unable to move. Nathan had been fucking that cold calculating bitch! That lying piece of shit had been sleeping with her even after all his worthless promises! How long had this been going on? His stomach twisted and he finally forced his body to move. He fled from the door in a clumsy half-run, desperate to get away from what he’d heard. 

When he’d finally stopped running, collapsing against the wall in one of the staff restrooms, heart kicking against his ribcage, his shock had turned to red-hot fury. Panting, seething, his brain screaming in his head, Pickles made a decision. To hell with the little handgun Charles had taken from him, he didn’t need it. Mordhaus had it’s own armory to outfit all their hooded guards. He was going to get a fuckin’ AK-47 and turn that bitch’s head into a bloody mist. He didn’t care about the consequences, he didn’t even care if Nathan beat him to death, which he considered a distinct possibility. Pickles was going to take that conniving witch to hell with him.

24

Rebecca put her hands on Nathan’s chest and leaned up to kiss him. But the big guy just stepped back, averting his eyes shamefully.

"What’s wrong, sweetheart?"

"I can’t, Rebecca. You need to stop this."

"Stop? I just want to make you feel good, baby." Her slender hands stroked over his bare pectorals. 

He flinched slightly, unable to look at her. "I’m not going to sleep with you again."

"Nathan… We have something special here, a chance to start anew. Are you telling me you don’t want that? You don’t want me?"

"I don’t know. It’s fucking confusing, okay?"

"What’s confusing? I like you, you like me, we make wonderful music together, don’t you think?"

"Just because we had sex, it doesn’t mean anything." He glanced sidelong at the woman, "I’m an idiot, Rebecca. I drink too much... And I fuck women when I’m drunk. I barely even remember it!" He’d awoken to find her in his bed for the third time this morning. Once again he’d blotted out his mind with alcohol, once again he’d been unforgivably stupid.

"So I’m just… A drunk lay to you, Nathan? Is that all I am, just another pair of spread legs, like all your slut groupies?!" Her voice had slipped, just for a moment, into that acerbic tone she used to berate him with, years ago. "Here I am, trying to start my life over again, and I love you Nathan, I always have, and you treat me like this?"

"I… I’m sorry. I can’t do this, I’m a fucking moron, okay? You’re not just a drunk lay, I was wrong… I’m sorry." It was so familiar, this feeling of defeat, yet she seemed so helpless now, so frail, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. She had him now, just like Pickles had said, and he was starting to understand what that meant.

She had him alright, her smile was as effective as a leash, and she held it tight as she closed the distance again and kissed him. The smell of her body lotion, the softness of her lips, her hands against his chest. He was letting this happen. He couldn’t have hated himself more if he’d tried.

25

The Armalite Tactical Rifle was surprisingly light in his hands. The drummer really knew very little about firearms, his handgun was rarely used, and only in self-defense, and honestly, he didn’t know this AR-15 from any other similar semi-automatic rifle in the armory. But it looked like it would do the job. It felt good to hold it, powerful, deadly. Pickles had simply ordered the armory guard aside and grabbed the weapon from the rack without a word of explanation. He cradled the thing in his lap as he steered the little electric scooter one-handed through the twisting hallways of the massive part of the complex where the Klokateers were housed and trained.

He left the scooter outside and walked the rest of the way to his room with the rifle clutched to his chest, terrified of being caught, yet electrified with anticipation, excited beyond rational thought. He wasn’t going to do it now, he thought. He’d wait until she went back to her own room, he’d follow her, and then he’d paint the walls with the whore’s rancid blood.

26

"I’s tellingks yous, sometings ams not right, I thinks." Skwisgaar glanced at his two bandmates across the saw-shaped kitchen table. "When’s de lasts time you even sees Pickle?"

"I sees him yesterdays, and he don’ts looks good at all. I tries to talks to him, and he don’ts even sees me t’ere. He’s creepy!" Toki moved his food around on the plate, then pushed the whole thing away. Gravlax and bacon wasn’t as good an idea as he’d originally thought.

Murderface nodded solemnly, "Yeah, I think you guysch are right. Damn, this is going to fuck up the band, ischn’t it?"

"Ja, it alreadies am." Skwisgaar looked at his ever-present Explorer, resting at his thigh. He still carried it, but lately he hadn’t been playing much.

Toki frowned, "It’s all because of t’at lady. She t’inks she’s da boss of everyt’ings, and she ams makings Nat’an act so weirds. And Pickle too!" 

"But we’s not suppost to cares, we sworeds not to get involveds. So what we can dos?"

"Skwisgaar, it ams not justs personalies stuff, t’is affectings us too."

"Guysch, it’sch worsche than you think." The bassist’s eyes narrowed, "Nathan’sch schleeping with her, I schaw her come out of hisch room yeschterday morning." He hadn’t wanted to say anything, but things were just getting too screwy.

"Dat is fuckeds up, ja." The Swede tapped his fingers against each other, "What we goingks to dos? Intervendings didn’ts work so good last times."

"Ja, Moidaface, what’s we do now?" Toki looked at his American bandmate. Murderface had a streak of cleverness, however deeply buried, and of the three of them, he was the most likely to have a plan.

Except he didn’t. "Hurgh… Schit, guysch. I don’t know… let me think." This was a little outside of his usual venue of pranks and petty retaliation. William sat quietly with the Scandinavians watching him expectantly.

"Schtop lookin’ at me, you fagsch!" The bassist swallowed, becoming increasingly nervous under pressure. He never felt comfortable being in charge, there was just too much responsibility. "Wait… wait, I think I have an idea."

27

Charles listened to a message he was hoping he’d never have to hear. After he’d taken Pickles’ gun, he’d instructed the armory guards to let him know immediately if the drummer visited them. They had called while he was in the shower, and Charles felt the grip of fear tighten in his chest as he dressed quickly, praying to any God that might be listening that he wasn’t already too late.

28

Pickles paced in his room, still cradling the weapon, shaking and pale. The adrenaline had worn off, and suddenly he felt cold and numb. "I’ve gone insane." He said to himself. Fingers tightening around the cold carbine steel, eyes wide and red. He’d gone completely insane, he was planning to _murder_ a human being. Even if she was a horrible human being, the thought was sickening.

"What da fuck am I thinking?" He choked back an anguished sound. "I can’t… I can’t do this! Oh gahd, fuck me, I’m a fuckin’ mahnster." He sat down on the edge of his bed, finally putting the Armalite down, carefully, on the mattress next to him, as if he were afraid the thing might spring to life and bite him.

He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life, so many stupid things that he regretted. Selfish things, careless acts that left other people damaged in his path. He’d always told himself he wasn’t really _bad_. He was just weak, self-centered and prone to making bad decisions, and he got what he deserved. It was Karma, and he accepted it. This, however: this was way beyond the line. He would never be able to go back, never be able to reconcile. He had become something horrible, inhuman, and the thought of it was unbearable. Sweat beaded up along the line of his dreds as he stared at the rifle.

It was an easy solution. He whispered to himself, to Nathan, to all the people he’d left with bad memories of him, "Forgive me."

He hesitated for several minutes, the smooth muzzle pressing against the underside of his chin. He was a monster, unredeemable at this point. This was all there was left for him to do. He tensed, finger contracted on the trigger, and the world went away.


	7. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, perhaps I lied.  
> Warning: Ugh, lame not-metal emotions.

Part 7: Revenge

29

Pickles was dead. He had killed himself. He was dead and nothing mattered anymore. He was dead and there was nothing. No pain, no anger, nothing but silence and darkness and… 

"Pickles." 

No, go away. He’s dead now, leave him alone.

"Pickles!" Suddenly he was being jostled roughly back to consciousness.

He had passed out with the rifle between his thighs, but he was alive, and unhurt. He had done it, he had actually pulled the trigger, but in his fervor and ignorance, Pickles never realized that the rifle wasn’t loaded, it had never occurred to him to put bullets in it. 

"Pickles, you fucking idiot!" The drummer stared up at Charles, who was holding him up by both shoulders. He could see his own disappointment and pain reflected back at him, and for a moment he wondered why it was there, in his manager’s eyes. Then the full weight of what he’d done overcame him like a wave, and as simple as that, he broke down.

Charles took a deep breath, made sure the door was locked, and sat down next to the miserable Wisconsinite. It had been plainly obvious what Pickles had been trying to do, there was still a distinct red mark on his pale throat from how hard he’d pressed the rifle’s muzzle there.

The CFO watched Pickles, the spectacle of a grown man who’d reached his breaking point and shattered like a china cup. It was horrible, it made Charles feel sick, and he reached out, touching the other man’s back. Pickles curled into his arms, the drummer shuddering and moaning, pressing his wet face against the manager’s expensive gabardine jacket. 

"Why would you do that?" Charles’ soft, calm tone just made it worse somehow, and the only response was a low groan, muffled against his chest. He just let Pickles cry it out, and when the redheaded musician finally calmed down some, he tried again.

"Tell me what happened."

30

It wasn’t hard to get the number. Every industry contact in Hollywood would have licked dogshit off their boots to score a few points with any member of Dethklok, and soon Murderface was listening to a telephone ring in Long Island, waiting for someone to pick up.

Toki and Skwisgaar sat on either side of him on the big rec room couch, still not sure what the bassist was going to do. It seemed like an eternity passed before Murderface perked up at the human voice on the line.

He cleared his throat, putting on his best manners. "Isch thisch the Nightrod reschidenche? … Yesch, thisch is William Murderfasche of Dethklok… Uh huh… uh huh, your daughter’sch boyfriend… Yeah." 

A pause, "Have you schpoken to Rebecca reschently? Really? … Yes, sche did." 

Another pause, the Scandinavians were now leaning in, both sets of blue eyes wide and curious. "Uh huh? Really. Well that’sch terrible… Yesch, I _will_ tell her."

Murderface glanced at the two guitarists, grinning. "Of coursch! When do you think you’ll get here? Uh huh? No, it won’t be a problem. Yeahuh… Thank _you_ , ma’am."

He hung up and turned to his cohorts. "Apparently, our lady of the housch never called her parentsch, not even to tell them sche woke up. Her folksch are on their way here, right now!"

Toki tilted his head in confusion. "Why she nots tells dem she wakes up?"

"Ja… exactlies what I wants to know. Dat ams strange."

"Really schtrange."

31

It was no use. Apparently Nathan just couldn’t get into it unless he was truly plastered. At least that was the theory. She claimed he’d been a rutting beast who’d torn her clothes to get at her, but he couldn’t remember anything in sensible detail, and he was starting to question whether it had happened at all. 

He looked at the woman in his bed, naked except for a tiny pair of lacy black panties and matching stockings. It was exactly what he’d always liked her in when they were first dating, but now… he looked at her and all he felt was guilt and shame. He knew it wasn’t working because he didn’t _want_ it to. He didn’t want her, not in his bed, and not in his life.

"Come on, honey, don’t be coy… let me help." Rebecca rolled off the bed and approached him.

Nathan tensed as she slid up against him, reaching to fondle his unwilling member. "No… Listen. This isn’t … it’s not what I want." He stepped away from her and bent to pick up his underwear, "I… am sorry, I really… uh, I’m sorry. I can’t."

When he looked up at her, he could see the old Rebecca, just for a moment, the flash of contempt in her eyes. But it smoothed over so quickly he wasn’t sure if he hadn’t imagined it.

She stood where he’d left her, "I understand, I mean, it happens to everyone." She smiled at him, as if she really did understand, but as soon as she said those words, Nathan became completely aware that she didn’t. She’d done everything in her power to charm him, beguile and seduce him, but she didn’t understand him at all. She didn’t know him, she didn’t even want to, and everything she did was impersonal and practiced, an act.

"I… think you should leave, now." Nathan’s eyes narrowed on her. He could look so menacing, even while naked and clutching a pair of tighty-whities, and he turned the full power of his predatory eyes upon her.

"Nathan… baby, please."

The singer just stood, looking at her, mouth pressed into a line. He had nothing else to say to her. Rebecca shivered, quickly pulling her clothing on, not even bothering to do up her dress in her hurry to get out of that room. She didn’t know where she’d slipped up, but somehow he’d surprised her, and as she retreated back to her own room, the blonde knew it was time to unsheathe her claws.

Rebecca Nightrod would _not_ be bested, not know, not ever. She would have Nathan kneeling at her feet again. She would make him beg her to forgive him, and then she would make him pay.

Her thoughts turned to the drummer. He was still a thorn in her side, even though she never saw him, the very knowledge that he was avoiding her, possibly plotting against her was a distraction, a constant annoyance. Well, she thought, it was about time she took care of that.

32

Charles stayed by Pickles’ side until the nurse arrived: a tall, stocky, stern-looking woman in her mid-30s. She would have little trouble making the wiry drummer stay put, by force if need be. 

"So you understand," He glanced at the nametag pinned to the woman’s smart uniform. "Claudette."

"Yes sir. His doctor gave me pretty specific instructions."

"Good, thank you." The manager turned to his charge, who was still shaking and pale. "Pickles. I can’t leave you alone, but I have to get to the bottom of this. Please just stay here, the nurse will keep you company. Can you handle that?"

A silent nod.

"I’ll be back as soon as I can."

Nod.

Charles pushed back the emotions threatening to break his cool demeanor, he had to stay professional, he had to deal with this problem logically and rationally. He went to his own quarters first, to change into a clean jacket, and also to wash his face. It gave him time to think, to decide what he was going to do next.

Rebecca. Nathan had been sleeping with her again. It really shouldn’t have been a shock, the woman was beautiful and crafty, she had seduced a hundred men before Nathan, and even though she acted totally different now, the result had been the same: The entire band was miserable.

And Nathan had nearly destroyed Pickles, even though he obviously loved the redheaded drummer on multiple levels. This just wasn’t right, Charles thought. Of all of them, Nathan had always been the most considerate of others, the most careful and thoughtful when it came down to feelings. The manager became convinced that the woman in question was somehow forcing Nathan into this situation, by blackmail or other means. Somehow she had gotten control of him.

Charles stepped into his office and pulled up his file on Rebecca Nightrod. He had received the doctor’s report the day before she arrived, but he had only had time to take a cursory glance at it. This time, he read the entire thing, and noticed something that struck him as off. According to the dates on the paperwork, Rebecca had been awake and lucid for over a week before she contacted him, looking for Nathan. Yet when he and Charles first went to visit her, she spoke as if she’d only been conscious for a day. She had never actually _said_ when she’d woken up, but the implications had been convincing.

Charles’ cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open and answered it, "Ofdensen."

"Hey uh, it’sch me."

"Hello, William, what can I do for you?"

"Well, schee, me and Toki and Schkwischgaar were talking, and uh, we deschided it was a good idea to call her folksch."

The manager blinked, this was a surprise. "Rebecca’s parents?"

"Yeah, scho I called them. And they told me sche never even told ‘em sche was awake! Scho _I_ told them, and now they’re coming here. They’ll be here in uh, ten or twelve hoursch." The bassist sounded proud of himself, for thinking of this, for making things happen.

Charles thought for a moment, "Yeah? That… Actually, that’s good. Good job, William, thank you."

"No problem, bossch!" Murderface was happy, his plan had worked out, and he was even getting praised for it. Charles hung up and made another call, to the hood he’d put on full-time Rebecca watch a couple of days earlier.

"Where is she now? Uh huh? I’m on my way."

33

Rebecca sat in front of a large mirror edged by steel spikes, doing her makeup. She had chosen her outfit carefully, put on a touch of retro with the style of her stilleto ankle boots and spiky teased hair. She would appeal to his nostalgia, make him feel young again. She knew how to lure a man, how to show him what he wanted, but give him nothing.

Someone knocked on her door as she was just finishing up her mascara, and she jumped slightly, smearing the makeup over her eyelid. "Fuck." Rebecca got up and palmed the doorpad. 

"Mr. Ofdensen, what brings you here?"

"Miss Nightrod. I was just making sure everything was going smoothly here. I was wondering when your family was going to come to pick you up. I have to let the Mordland guards know in advance."

"Oh… Well, I don’t know. Nathan and I are getting along so well, we might be getting back together."

"Really. Congratulations."

"Thank you. Is there anything else? I’m sorry, I’m a little busy right now."

"No… just, do let me know if you need anything."

"I will, thank you." Her smile was pure sugar as Charles left her room. As soon as the door slid shut, it turned into vinegar in her mouth. _Nosy son of a bitch, you’d better stay out of my way._

She never noticed the small round object Charles had left adhered to the inside of her doorframe before he left.

34

Pickles watched the nurse, and the nurse watched him back. He felt like a child, like he was being punished, and he supposed he was. He hadn’t said a single word, just sat there staring, barely even blinking, until the nurse twitched and looked away, and Pickles found his knees suddenly fascinating. They were both almost grateful when someone knocked on the drummer’s door, breaking the terse silence.

Claudette opened the door, behind which was a tall blonde woman, dressed in punkish 80’s throwback black and pink. She looked surprised to see the nurse, then smiled, but the look in her eyes didn’t match the curl of her lips at all.

Rebecca had no idea what had been going on, why the nurse was there, or why Pickles looked like he was ready to die. She had never once clued into the relationship between the drummer and singer, never cared enough to look. She just saw something she wanted, and the nurse was an obstacle.

Claudette, however had not been prepared for this. Neither the doctor nor Charles had considered the possibility that Rebecca might come looking for Pickles, and so the nurse had no idea who she was or why she was there.

The blonde’s mouth opened to reveal shining teeth, "Hello, I’m Rebecca Nightrod. I’m Nathan Explosion’s girlfriend. I wanted to make sure Pickles was alright… The poor dear, I came as soon as I could… Do you mind if I come in and see him?"

No, the nurse supposed that was alright. Oh, she wanted to talk to him privately? Well she really wasn’t supposed to, but Rebecca was a friend, it would be okay, the nurse would wait outside. Rebecca locked the door behind her and grinned at the small man, who was nearly catatonic.

Pickles looked up. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing, she looked so different than he remembered, he barely recognized her, and he was half-convinced he was hallucinating. The blonde woman sat next to him, putting her arm over his shoulder, and he flinched away. 

"Pickles, I know you and I haven’t always gotten along, there’s been some bad air between us, and I’d like to clear that, if you let me." Her tone was liquid, soothing. 

He didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on her face, on her garish eyeshadow and emphasized cheekbones. This was unreal, she looked like one of his groupies from way back, when he was so beautiful and stupid.

The woman was too close, he could smell her perfume, her hairspray, all of it bringing back memories. It was too perfect, she had planned every detail.

She put her hand on the drummer’s thigh, and something in him clicked. This was real. Rebecca was here, she was touching him… She was trying to seduce him – why? To fuck things up between him and Nathan, of course. She had been playing the frontman, and now she wanted to play him. Pickles felt the fury rise in him, and before he could even think about it, he acted, fueled by pure instinct and adrenaline.

Outside in the hallway, Claudette heard a scream of rage, and an accompanying shriek of fear. She discovered that the door had been locked, and fumbled for the card-key that would override it. The card wasn’t there. The nurse started to panic at the sounds of struggle coming from the drummer’s room. She held up her walkie and clicked it on, "Unit MA13 to Security, crisis team to PQ2. _Now_!"


	8. Battle Song

Part 8: Battle Song

35

It took less than five minutes for the crisis team to arrive and break the door down. By this point, Pickles had the blonde woman in a headlock, and was slowly choking the life out of her. His arm bled where Rebecca was clawing at him, and his face was nearly as red as the raw torn flesh, and his chest was heaving painfully.

__

Die… Die… He hissed the word in each laboured asthmatic breath.

The former tennis pro had once been quite strong – she would have easily overpowered the small man, but two years of inactivity had left her limbs thin and weak, and she simply didn’t have the strength to defend herself.

A massive hood pried the enraged drummer from Rebecca’s throat. Pickles’ hard, slim forearm had left a dark bruise across her throat, and she choked for breath. She would not let a pathetic freak like him defeat her, and she forced herself slowly to her feet, staring him down with a withering ferocity.

At first, no sound would come out of her bruised larynx, but she forced the words out, rasping and raw, "You’re sick. Expect to hear from my lawyer." Her legs nearly buckled as she turned to walk out of the room, but Rebecca refused to give them the satisfaction, any of them, and the blonde held her head high as she made her exit. Claudette tried to stop her at the door, to tell her she should get herself checked out by a doctor, she might be in shock… but the tall woman elbowed the nurse aside in her hurry to leave.

The hood held Pickles, struggling to contain the writhing, screaming, bloody drummer.

"Let go a’ me, fucker! Leggo! Don’t… Fuck, don’t let her go! You don’t know! You don’t _know_!" He choked on his words and wheezed, "Let me go… I’ll be good." But it was futile. The only person who could order the burly security Gear to release Pickles hadn’t arrived yet, so the redhead just sagged against the large, tanned arms, trying to get his breathing back under control before he went into seizures. It was oddly comforting to be held that way, and after a couple of strenuous minutes, Pickles found himself calming down. By the time Charles Ofdensen stepped through the broken door, the drummer was very nearly rational, and the hood put him down.

The manager told the large security Gear, as well as the other two hanging back at the door, to wait in the hallway for him, and once she’d seen to Pickles’ wounds, he dismissed the nurse as well. 

Charles sighed, "I’m sorry."

The drummer clutched his inhaler in both hands, still gasping, "I… I fucked up."

"It wasn’t your fault. I should have known she’d do this. She’s a sociopath, Nathan just doesn’t see it yet. And until he does, I can’t help him."

Pickles flinched at his bandmate’s name.

"I’ll figure it out, Pickles. I’ll make him understand, and then we’ll take care of this problem. I promise you this."

The redhead wasn’t listening anymore, lost in his thoughts. He stuttered, "G-gahd, no wonder… no fuckin’ wonder nobody wants me… I’m a terrible person, I don’t deserve him… I never did. Jest… ferget about it, Charlie."

Charles frowned, "That’s not true, none of it."

"Da hell do you know, huh? Yer… you barely gat any feelings."

"You know that isn’t true, either." The manager sighed and looked at Pickles. He had to know it wasn’t true. "I’m hard on you boys because someone has to be. I don’t enjoy it. I’m a goddamn human being, Pickles, I’m just like anyone else. But I do what I have to. It’s my fucking job, and I take it seriously, because if I let something happen to you, I will have to live with it for the rest of my life." He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. "I’m trying my best to keep things from falling apart, and I wish you’d appreciate it for once."

Pickles was quiet, looking down at his clasped hands, and Charles sat down next to him. It was strange, he’d only meant to comfort the other man, but somehow he wound up in an intimate embrace, suddenly the drummer’s tear-stained cheek was brushing against his, and he could smell the sweat and blood and faded tang of alcohol on Pickles’ skin. Strong, small hands clutched at his collar, at his hair, and Charles found Pickles’ mouth against his, hungry and desperate for comfort. He put his own hands on the drummer’s slender back, snaring his fingers amongst the tangle of red dredlocks, momentarily lost in the rush and the sour-sweet taste of the redhead’s eager pierced tongue. 

Pickles made a small whimpering sound and tried to pull himself into the manager’s lap, holding Charles in the kiss, deepening it, seeking a true understanding of the stoic businessman’s humanity… and he found it in the moment when Charles pushed him away.

Panting, flushed, momentarily stripped of his cool veneer. "No."

Pickles' voice crackled, "Why nat?"

Charles slid away from the dredlocked drummer, "I care a great deal about you, Pickles. And … I guess you know I’m uh, well, I haven’t been with a woman in a very long time. But I won’t do this, it’s wrong, and I’m not the one you should be turning to right now. Nathan loves you, he’s all but shouted it at me… I don’t care what that hussy’s done to him, it doesn’t change anything."

For the first time in days, Pickles smiled. It was unhappy and tired, but it was a glimmer of hope. "Fuck… I’m so stupid. I’m sarry, seriously dood."

"Don’t mention it. I mean that, never mention what just happened."

"Nathing happened."

"Right. I’d like you to stay under guard tonight. I’m sorry, but Rebecca is unpredictable, and right now, I don’t know where she is or what she might do. I also think you should stay in a different room, at least until your door is repaired."

"Okey, whatever you say, boss." Pickles nodded, realizing now that he trusted his manager completely, that while he’d often said those words jokingly in the past, this time he meant it.

36

Rebecca’s parents arrived in Mordland that night, and were put up at one of the nicer hotels in sector 7G, a relatively pleasant Americanized tourist town known colloquially as ‘Cadaverville’. Charles had conveyed to the couple that it might take a few days to get them in to see their daughter, which caused some irate conversation, but eventually the Nightrods settled in to wait.

The next morning, Rebecca was still locked in her room, with two guards posted in the hallway. And Nathan was in Ofdensen’s office, watching the CFO with an uneasy frown. 

He hated coming here, it always meant something was wrong. He knew it was their manager’s job to take care of the extremely frequent problems the band caused for themselves, and deep down, he was thankful for the man, but Nathan didn’t like being there, he didn’t like talking to Charles, it was never about anything good.

"Have a seat, Nathan." As the frontman settled into the chair, Charles continued. "I understand you and Rebecca are getting along quite well."

"I… guess so."

"Do you love her?" The manager narrowed his eyes behind his glasses.

"Uh. Uh, well… you know, it’s… fuck, Ofdensen, no." He lowered his voice to a growl, leaning towards Charles with a hand gripping the edge of the manager’s desk. "Fuck, I can’t stand it anymore… I hate her, it’s even worse than it was before... But I can’t do anything, she’s a fucking poisonous _snake_. Everyone likes her, and … I made a big, stupid mistake."

"I have something I think you should hear" Charles placed a recording device on the desk, and pressed play.

Nathan glowered at the machine, brow furrowing as he listened. Rebecca’s voice, evidently talking on the phone.

__

Don’t worry honey, I’m going to sue the fuck out of that piece of shit hippie drummer and everyone else in this frigid hellhole… What about him? … I can handle Nathan… Of course not, baby. That fat idiot still thinks he fucked me, he’s not going to do anything… Love you too, baby. 

The singer blinked, "Fat? She called me fat!"

"Nathan."

"I…Am I fat? I guess I do need to work out more..." 

"You’re missing the point, Nathan."

The big frontman thought back over the recording. He worried his lower lip with his teeth. He was slow sometimes, had a hard time sorting out his thoughts, but he wasn’t exactly stupid, and when he wanted to, he could figure things out.

__

Thinks he fucked me.

She could have quite easily crept into his bed after he’d fallen into a deep drunken sleep, he thought, he rarely locked his door, and she knew it. He couldn’t remember there being any solid evidence, no used condoms or sticky spots on the sheets, no red marks on his body from impassioned fingers or teeth, nothing but her clothing on his floor, and her naked body in his bed. Goddamn it, he was so naïve…

"I… didn’t do it with her."

"No, you didn’t. I suspect she might have slipped you something, a sedative. She’s had us all running in circles, and I still don’t know who she was speaking to, but we have her now."

"I didn’t… Charles, I owe you. I seriously owe you, anything. I will buy you anything. You want another horse? I’ll buy you a horse."

"It’s fine, Nathan. You’ve already given me what I want. Are you alright now?"

"Yeah. But what are we going to do about her?"

"Leave her to me."

37

Skwisgaar moved his piece on the board and picked up a card. They had their own Metal edition of Monopoly, which was themed after Dethklok, with scantily clad succubitches and skulls instead of the little moustache guy. Each member had his own piece, designed by them. Of course, the Swede was moving a tiny enameled steel replica of his own Gibson Explorer. Toki’s was a wolf with tiny yellow glass eyes, and Murderface had a very badass WW1 Biplane,

Skwisgaar looked at the card and made a dissatisfied noise.

"What now?"

"I can’ts consketrates on dis. Everytings ams so messed up right nows."

"Me neit’er, I don’ts wants to play dis no mores."

"Of course you don’t. You don’t have any money left." Murderface frowned, "And yeah, it schucks with only three of usch. I missch Nathan and Picklesch. Thisch schucks."

"Ja. Bu-ut… uh, her parents ams here nows right? So… so she goings to be gones soon."

"Moidaface, I don’ts think your plans gonna work, it ams a screw up. You gets her mom and dad to come get her, and she still ams here, and I don’ts like it."

"Well what the fuck do you guysch want me to do?!"

"I’m sorries, Moidaface, I don’ts know."

"Maybe we… uhh… you know, maybe we goes and talks to de robot nows."

A groan. "I don’t want to talk to that guuuuy… But you’re right. We gotta. He’sch the one who fixesch schit."

"Ja, he ams impertinants to de busy-nas. I knows it." Toki didn’t want to admit it, but he respected Ofdensen, somehow understanding that the short, quiet CFO stood between the band and the wide array of catastrophes they brought about. Possibly the only thing standing there.

38

It didn’t take long for the situation to escalate in a predictable manner. Rebecca called her lawyers, the lawyers contacted her parents, and within hours they were all calling Dethklok’s manager.

Mr. Nightrod was the first, demanding that he and his wife be allowed into Mordhaus. He was a dignitary, a decorated veteran, he wouldn’t stand to be treated like this. But the dozens of armed guards at the periphery of the compound said otherwise.

Rebecca had her own complaints, demanding Pickles be locked up, that she was going to make Nathan have the drummer fired. Of course Charles had to restrain himself from laughing at her. He didn’t want to give the game away before it was over.

Then the Nightrods’ attourney called, with her own list of threats and demands. While Charles knew the best lawyers in the world had slim chances against the empire of Dethklok, he also knew he had to be careful, deal with these things with tact and civility to keep them from getting out of hand.

He swallowed yet another Tylenol before he answered the phone. _Click_ , "Ofdensen."

"Hello, this is Dr. Orvis from the Cinco clinic, I’m calling regarding the message I received from your office this morning."

An exhalation of relief, "Thank you, doctor. I take it you understand the situation."

"I read your letter very carefully."

"Good, good… What can you give me?"

"I have reviewed the case in question, and I think you are correct." The doctor was purposefully keeping his language oblique.

Charles smiled into the receiver. He’d had to offer quite a nice incentive to get Dr. Orvis on board, but the savvy businessman felt it was a worthwhile investment. "And the suggested course of action?"

"I’ve already filed the paperwork, I’m ready to call it in. Expect visitors within the next two hours. They will require her parents’ consent, of course. I assume you have that?"

"I will have it, just do your part."

"Consider it done. Thank you for your consult, Mr. Ofdensen."

"And you. Goodbye." He clicked the phone closed, his face crinkling into a vicious smile. He was the predator now, and his quarry was within his sights.


	9. Marrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca decides to leave the party, it's getting too crowded.  
> Even more squishy feelings crap. Uuuuugh!

Part 9: Marrow

39

Toki looked at the form, listening to the manager’s explanation of what it meant. When he finally got it, he blinked with wide eyes, "Wowie! Yous really goings to do t’at?"

Charles nodded, "Yes."

"Seriouslies? T’at’s brutal!"

Skwisgaar shook his head, "Ja, uhhh, maybes I uh, goingks to be more nicers to you.. now… den."

"Yeah, you don’t want to get on thisch guy’sch bad schide. Jeezy! That’sch juscht… brilliant. You got my reschpect, man."

"Thank you, William. I just need you guys to cooperate with me on this, think you’ll be able to do this?"

Murderface smirked, "I know I will."

Toki nodded, figuring he could just go all weird and silent if he really wanted to get out of the situation. It had often worked for him in the past.

"Ahh, uhh.. what if dey asks me sometings like, spensificks t’ings on what you wroted here?" Skwisgaar pointed at the short paragraph on his form.

"Tell them your lawyer has advised you not to answer their questions." 

"Ja, I can does dat."

The manager took the signed forms from each of them, and tapped them together on the desk blotter. "I’m sure you’ll do fine. Now, if you don’t mind, the Nightrods are on their way up, so I need you to not be here when they arrive."

Murderface held up his hands, "Schay no more." And all three of them made themselves gone. 

It was kind of endearing how guileless the boys were, even Murderface, who could be a complete asshole, was prone to honesty. They were oddly innocent, like great destructive children who’d never grow up, and honestly, Charles liked them that way.

40

Rebecca paced in her room, like a caged animal, she thought, a prisoner. Her throat still ached, and she hadn’t been able to eat solid food, which made her even more irritable She could hear the guards chat outside her door, talking about guns and motorcycles for a good hour before they got quiet. She stood by the window, looking down at the sheer drop to a rocky slope a good four storeys below. 

She took stock of her belongings, glad that her captors had not seen fit to search her room. She was formulating an idea even as she rifled through her bags for the right clothing… It was time to act, she thought. Time to cause some real havoc. The blonde took a deep breath.

The two guards in the hallway had become bored and drowsy, their conversation had dwindled to single syllables, and now they were both leaning against the wall in silence. A shrill scream coming from their prisoner’s room startled the guards back to full attention. The pair looked at each other, and one of them unlocked the door. Their blonde guest had vanished, and there was no movement but the gentle sway of the drapes against the wide-open window.

"Shit… Shit!" The shorter hood ran to the window and looked down. He could see a prone human form on the ground below, death-still and stained with red. The other guard leaned over him and moaned, "Ohh no!"

However, staring at the mess below the window meant that the guards weren’t watching the open door. It meant that they didn’t see a lithe female figure slide out from under the bed and make a quick, quiet escape.

41

"So… my little girl’s insane?" Mr. Nightrod’s dark blue eyes appraised Dethklok’s manager over the edge of the manila folder containing the report on his daughter.

"I’m afraid so. The trauma to her brain caused severe, unpredictable mental degeneration. She is a danger to herself and others, and I am very sorry, but now you understand why there were… problems… when you arrived."

The older man looked through the reports, statements from each of the band members, telling similar stories of his daughter’s irrational and violent behaviour. His wife stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. She looked at Charles with a sad, tired expression, "I always worried she might come back to us… wrong. What does this mean? What’s going to happen to her?"

Charles steepled his fingers, "Nathan feels somewhat responsible for your daughter’s condition, as he encouraged her to leave the hospital before her doctors knew how extensive the damage was, and he has asked me to arrange for her to be taken care of." He drew out another form and slid it towards the Nightrods. 

"I have already made arrangements with one of the best institutions in New York. Representatives of the hospital are in Mordland now, and I have spoken to them at length. They are ready to escort you and your daughter to the hospital."

"And you need me to sign this."

"Both of you, yes."

Mrs. Nightrod stifled a sob as her husband sighed deeply and picked up one of the manager’s pens. With a few strokes the couple had delivered their daughter into Charles’ hands. The manager smiled sympathetically at them as he escorted the couple out and bid them farewell, but within, he was grinning with malicious glee. He was going to make that woman pay for hurting his boys, and he was going to enjoy it.

42

Dressed in black and wearing a makeshift hood, the woman passed unnoticed through the corridors of the Mordhaus guest annex. To anyone who didn’t look too closely, she was just another random employee. Leaving the complex was going to be difficult, she knew. There were armed guards and miscellaneous hoods everywhere, and she had to act like she knew where she was going. But of course, she was an actress, who better to play the part?

Once outside, Rebecca fell in behind a small group of Klokateers who were too involved in their own conversation to notice her. She had no idea where they were heading, but the further away she got from the little room where she’d been kept, the better she felt. Through some serendipity, the group’s route went right past a vehicle depot. Rebecca slipped away, grinning at her luck, and found a freshly charged scooter waiting for her on the asphalt.

Twenty minutes later, Rebecca Nightrod had just lied her way past the great gate out of Mordhaus. She’d been there often enough to understand a bit of how the employee hierarchy worked, and now, as far as anyone knew, she was a library worker taking a day off to visit her family. She pushed the scooter to its speed limit, coasting down the curved turnpike to outer Mordland. If she had anything to say about it, Rebecca would never set foot in the home of Dethklok again. If she had her way, there wouldn’t be a Mordhaus to set foot in.

43

It was quiet, a gentle wind came through the open arched window, fresh and fragrant. Pickles needed the break, to get away from everything familiar and painful. This small guest room, furnished in far more conventional style than his own quarters: tasteful, comfortable, utterly different. Curled in a plush armchair, with the breeze and the distant sound of birds, Pickles could almost forget he was still in Mordland, still trapped within the narrow definition of his own success, and the feeling of slow decay all around him.

A soft tapping, someone was at the door. He paused, then remembered, if it were someone who shouldn’t be there, the armed guards outside would have taken care of them. "Cahm in."

Nathan opened the door, and Pickles tensed at the sight of him, rising from his seat. The vocalist too, felt uneasy as he let the door close behind him. They stood in silence at opposing ends of the room, trying to find meaning in the confusing jumble of thoughts and emotions between them. 

Pickles’ eyes drifted down. Both sets of Nathan’s knuckles were deeply bruised and abraded, the raw flesh just starting to scab over, and the drummer couldn’t help but imagine how the big man got them that way.

Nathan spoke first, "I’m sorry."

"Ya should be."

Wince, "Yeah, well. I am. But…"

"But what? Ya fucked her, Nate. Ya lied to me."

"No… Pickles. I didn’t." 

"Don’t give me dat shit, I heard ya talkin’." Looking up, into the feral jewels of the singer’s gaze, Pickles’ shield of anger cracked. "Why’d ya let it happen?"

Nathan implored with the downward curve of his mouth, "You don’t get it. I never did it with her." He swallowed, still unsure, but the drummer was listening. "She… I think she, uh, spiked my drinks with something… and got into my bed while I was asleep."

"Ya _think_?" 

"Ofdensen bugged her room, she says shit about us… And… I’m so fucking stupid."

Pickles searched the other man’s face and could find no trace of deceit in it. It was so hard to believe, but he knew that manipulative cow had done something to Nathan, somehow she’d gotten him under her heel. And even though he was starting to understand why, Nathan had still hurt him badly. "I swear ta gahd… I don’t know what ta say to ya."

"Please… please, Pickles… I’m sorry."

The smaller musician was quiet, needing a moment to sort out his thoughts. He’d been so angry at Nathan, the betrayal had rooted in his core and consumed him until he’d wanted to… tried to…

"Nate, you know I… I did sahmthin’ real bad. D-did Charles tell ya?"

Nathan nodded. "You tried to kill her."

Pickles laughed darkly, "See, yer nat th’ only one who’s a fuckin’ idiot." Swallowing, "I even gat one of dem big black rifles before, ta kill her with, but it wasn’t even loaded." He omitted how he’d found out it hadn’t been loaded. That was a burden he did not want Nathan to bear. "But I wanted to… I could have murdered someone yesterday."

Quietly, the black-haired vocalist moved further into the room. "I don’t care, I miss you. I’ve missed you ever since this shit started… And I don’t know… how to… tell me what to do."

Pickles looked up into Nathan’s eyes, "Say it."

"W-what?"

"What I want to hear, what ya don’t let me say." The tone was firm, calm. He was challenging the other man, giving him an ultimatum.

Hiding behind the swaying drapery of his hair, the big guy’s face slowly turned red with understanding. Nathan had to break the first rule they'd set, not just when they'd started fooling around, but long before that. He looked at Pickles from the shadow of his thick eyebrows. "That. But… I, uh." He hadn't said it to anyone, not even to his own mother, since he was a child. "I… fuck, you know!"

"No. I don’t. Say it."

Breathing heavily now, the cold chill of adrenaline climbing his back, he closed his eyes. "Pickles… I…" This is so hard. Why is this so hard? Because it’s true, because you’re opening the most vulnerable part of yourself to another person. You’re letting him get inside you, right into your bones, and if he hurts you now, you’ll never recover… It has to be hard, or it doesn’t mean anything.

It came out a choked whisper, one he’d had to tear, clawing in terror, from his throat.

"…I love you."

When he looked again, he saw only the clear green reflection of himself in Pickles’ eyes. The drummer had crept up close while he’d been struggling, unable to stand the distance, and Nathan impulsively reached out and pulled Pickles against him. The world bled away from the place where their mouths met, from where their hands stroked and clutched at each other. In that kiss was forgiveness.


	10. Heavy Artillery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh trust me, personal mush is just the beginning...  
> There's so much more at play than anyone at Mordhaus yet realizes.

Part 10: Heavy Artillery

Part 10: Heavy Artillery

44

It didn’t take long for the troops to start moving. Charles had given swift, decisive orders to keep her from getting out of Mordland, and even as she turned her scooter into the exit to Steel City, she could see squadrons of armed militia scrambling to cover every road out, every airport and shipping dock. But Rebecca wasn’t trying to leave the country, not yet. 

Steel City was large, easy to get lost in. The place was densely populated with blue-collar factory workers, rough and secretive, it was the kind of town where people didn’t get nosy. Home to a thriving black market, the lack of a properly organized governing force made it easy for the drug runners and arms dealers to make a nice niche for themselves in this godless land.

It was also home to another organization, one far more difficult to find. They hid like rats from the only law Mordland had, which was death. Men, and a few women, who’d been long disillusioned to Dethklok’s charms, who had been branded with the Gear, and now regretted their decision. But once you were marked, there was no getting out, and all they could do was hide.

Rebecca met up with a tall, tattooed hood who brought her down to a dark, rank underground lair, where dozens of people lived without human luxuries. She looked around at worried, distrustful faces as she followed her guide into the large gathering space. They didn’t wear hoods down here, these weren’t anonymous drones, they were human beings helping each other survive. 

She saw something in their eyes, more than fear or anger, she saw need. These people were frightened, but in their anger, their hatred, they had potential. This was a force waiting to be given a direction. What they needed was a leader.

Rebecca pulled her hood back and smiled at them. 

45

Oh god, he was glorious, the desperation and regret in his face only made more beautiful, and Pickles kissed at his cheeks, tasting his tears. Nathan’s hands were busily removing the drummer’s clothing as the wiry redhead clung to him. The burly singer pulled Pickles down onto the narrow bed with him, returning his quick, fevered kisses, nuzzling against the redhead’s throat and drawing in the warm, comforting smell of his skin.

Pickles nimbly twisted around in Nathan’s grip and undid the singer’s jeans, reaching in to fondle him as the big guy licked and nipped at the freckled crook of his shoulder. It didn’t take Nathan long to prove himself ready, and _holy fuck_ , he’d seen it before, but the drummer’s eyes still went wide when he freed that gorgeous piece of flesh. 

Shimmying down against Nathan’s belly, Pickles pressed his own erection up against the larger man’s… the _much_ larger man’s. He had to use both hands to grip them together, and Nathan moaned, "What are you doing?"

"Mmn, just comparin’." He rolled his hips, making his prick slide against the underside of his companion’s.

"Hnnfuck! Well… don’t hate me for what nature gave me."

That sly, sexy grin appeared, "Oh dood, I don’t. I fuckin’ love it. I wish ya knew."

Nathan bit his lip. "…Pickles?"

"Mmmyes?"

Stroking a large hand over the drummer’s dreds, Nathan paused in thought, trying to pick out the best way to express himself, "Do you remember, uh… some stuff you said a while back, like, last month, about, uh… you wanting to try… something, um."

Pickles rested his cheek on the singer’s chest, trapping his hands between their bodies, "Maybe?"

"You were kind of uh, not saying it, but I know you wanted to… do what I do to you, to me. You know? And… and I just… I thought if you still…" Nathan’s brain stopped functioning properly and his face turned an interesting shade of pink.

Pickles looked up, suddenly serious, "Nate’n… are ya askin’ me because ya really want it, or because ya feel bad about what y’did to me?"

Nathan didn’t answer, his eyes slid away and he breathed deeply, embarrassed.

"Listen ta me, Nate… If I do deat, if I ever do it to ya, I want it ta be b’cause ya want it. I need ya to want me ta fuck ya. Nat b’cause ya feel guilty or lonely… ask me again in a week, if ya still want it… well, we can ta’k about it then, awreet?"

"Yeah, alright."

"Okey. Cos… I mean, right now I want ya inside me, babe. I want your cock, and I ain’t takin’ no fer an answer." Between their bellies, Pickles squeezed Nathan’s shaft, and the big guy grunted, nodding his enthusiastic consent to the drummer’s demands. 

46

Charles felt he should check up on Pickles, make sure the drummer was alright. It had been a full day since he’d heard from the musician, and the manager had been busy dealing with Rebecca’s escape. The guards that he’d posted outside Pickles’ temporary quarters were nowhere to be seen, and Charles was suddenly worried. He strode up to the door, raised his hand to kno-

"Aaahh! Ah, Nate! Nnngghh… F-fuck me!"

"GRRRAAAHH! LOUDER!"

" _FUCK MEEEEEE_!"

Charles blinked. He’d… he’d come back later.

47

This was the sensation that had been haunting his dreams night after night, the perfect grip of Pickles’ tight, hot little body around his plunging cock, the way the redhead screamed and writhed and begged for more. The memory of it had been so vivid as Nathan had lain in his bed alone, hot and unsatisfied, and now it was threatening to overwhelm him.

Pickles squirmed and bucked back into the deliciously mind-numbing surge of Nathan’s thick member, teeth clenched and eyes twisted shut as he was shoved hard against the squeaking mattress, both hands held over his head by the wrists as his lover worked him. His own erection bounced against his belly with each thrust, begging to be touched, dripping and aching for attention… but he was held fast by the big guy’s hands, and he whined in anguished frustration, "Nnnaaaate!"

Intuition moved one of Nathan’s hands to the drummer’s fiery-haired groin, and Pickles followed, rough fingers wrapping around the vocalist’s own as he stroked and kneaded at his lover’s smaller, but far from inadequate endowment. Nathan’s hand moved in time with the rolling piston of his sweat-slicked hips, and the double assault finally did the wiry redhead in.

Pickles arched as his entire body strained, his thighs tensing against the singer’s ribs hard enough to hurt. A clear melodic yowl erupted from the smaller man’s bared throat as he came, spurting against and between Nathan’s fingers to drip and splash across his own freckled chest. He swore and gasped his lover’s name, shaking with each body-wracking spasm, his face flushed, mouth wet and slightly open, eyelids fluttering. 

Nathan watched in awe, he was always amazed by how fucking sexy his bandmate looked like that, so defenseless and swept away by pleasure. And the feeling of the muscles inside the drummer’s body clenching and rippling along his cock, oh fuck… Oh! 

Nathan growled and bucked hard, "HRRRGHNN! Fuck yeah… YEAH!" He forced his eyes to stay open, fixed on the bliss-tortured look on Pickles’ face as his skin rose into gooseflesh and fire flooded his body… he bit his lip until it bled, and then everything shattered, he was falling, coming, moaning, it was so good…

Nothing else mattered, the world had shrunken to the tiny sphere of light around the small bed, and in that world, everything was perfect… Nathan curled onto his side, sliding free of his lover’s damp, exhausted body, and Pickles tucked himself against the curve of the singer’s belly, pulling Nathan’s arms around him. 

There was no need for conversation, and within minutes, they had both fallen deeply into sleep.

48

Her years in Hollywood were certainly coming in handy. All that time spent in backlots had taught her the true versatility of clothing and makeup, and standing in flat boots, with her breasts bound, and a padded flak jacket under her new standard-issue Klokateer uniform, Rebecca hardly resembled the woman half of Mordland was now searching for. 

She was sitting quietly, letting a slim hispanic-looking teenager drew a fake tattoo on her upper arm with a black permanent pen, graceful lines that became twin snakes entwined around a bleeding heart. Rebecca looked up as the tall man who’d led her here, with real tattoos swirling up both arms, came in and knelt before her. He no longer wore his hood, and under thick black curls, the man’s face was Romanesque and very attractive despite, or perhaps because of, the two long scars across his cheek and jaw.

Rebecca leant forward and kissed the full cupid’s bow of the young man’s mouth, "Hey baby. Miss me?"

"Always."

Slender fingers stroked the Latin’s firm jaw, "Do you have good news for me?"

"Of course, _bonita_ , many of our men are eager to support us. Already, we are making arrangements to have vehicles and weapons… and the special items which you have asked for. You have no worries, my love, you cannot be resisted."

"Neither can you, Paolo." She kissed him again. 

Rebecca turned to the teenager with the pen, who had just finished applying the last lines and was patting the ink with powder foundation to keep it from bleeding, and to give it the faded, translucent quality of the real thing. "Nice work, kid. Maybe someday I’ll have you design a real one for me."

The teenager smiled, but said nothing. He had not uttered a word since an overly enthusiastic fan had slit his throat at a concert the year before, but his eyes conveyed unspoken volumes.

Paolo smiled approvingly, then his face took on a more serious aspect, "The Gears are swarming every exit out of Mordland, nobody is allowed in or out, and they are systematically searching each town. It is only a matter of time before they come here."

The actress nodded solemnly, "We will have to keep on the move, then. Do we know which towns they’ve already searched?"

"Some of them, yes. It will be a challenge to move everyone at once, as well as the equipment. But I’m certain we can do it, if we have enough time to plan. Mordland is large, and though we may be hunted like rabbits, we have many burrows to hide in." He paused, "Soon, we won’t need to hide at all."

Rebecca smiled sweetly at her tall cohort, "Well, then. Let’s get the troops ready."

49

When Nathan woke up, Pickles was watching him, sitting up against the headboard with his knees crossed, his skin and hair both damp from having just showered. Nathan reached out, caressed one of the drummer’s toned thighs, and was rewarded with a soft smile. 

"Go take a shower, Nate. I want to talk to you, awake." Pickles turned and stood up, graceful and naked in the early morning sunlight that turned all the fine red-gold hairs on his body into a brilliant halo. Nathan watched him stretch, admiring the smooth androgynous curves of the smaller man’s back and ass, which had become so much more attractive to him than any of his thousands of doe-eyed groupies.

Sensing the importance of whatever was on the redhead’s mind, Nathan got up and turned on the light in the small, windowless bathroom. It had been a long time since he’d had to use such a small shower, and it was almost claustrophobic. The shampoo available wasn’t what he liked, and there was no conditioner, so he just rinsed himself in the cool, clean water until he felt more alert.

When the black-haired singer reemerged, holding a too-small guest towel around his hips, Pickles was already dressed, sitting in the room’s lone dingy grey armchair. The dredlocked musician stayed quiet as Nathan toweled his hair and put on his own clothes, simply watching him, waiting for the right moment.

The burly man sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the soft thrum of silence in his bones, he became uneasy as it stretched on, and he looked at Pickles, who finally spoke.

"I need ta ask ya a serious question, Nate. I need t’know ya understand it.

Now completely awake, Nathan’s brow knit and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, uh… okay."

"Reet now, I am willin’ ta put my life in yer hands, Nate. I mean it. Because… because." He looked down, remembering the press of the rifle barrel to his throat. "You ripped my heart out, Nate… Twice… an’ I do forgive ya, I really do. But… that’s it fer me. If ya can’t prahmise me yeh’ll stick by me th’ next time some scary shit happens… I can’t do this."

Nathan shrank back, unprepared for the sting of intense sadness in his friend’s voice. He could feel the weight of guilt and fear press down on his chest until he was struggling to breathe calmly. _No… Please no_.

Pickles saw how Nathan was reacting, and he sighed, "I ain’t strong, Nate, I’m gettin’ old, and if ya hurt me again like ya did, it’ll be th’ end of me. Listen ta me. _The end_. I will be gone. I need ya ta tell me yer really wit’ me, I need t’know I can trust ya."

Nathan kept his eyes down, his hair falling over his face and onto his white-knuckled hands, the vocalist now completely unable to speak. He’d had no idea how deeply Pickles’ feelings ran, and it was a shocking revelation. The smaller man watched him patiently, waiting, wanting assurance… but there was only the cold wall of silence.


	11. Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but a few questions get answered.  
> Charles is a liar. He lied. Pants on fire.

Part 11: Communication

Part 11: Communication

50

"You will never say that to me again, do you understand? You _can_ find her, and you _will_ find her." Ofdensen’s voice was rigid with restrained anger. "Start rousing the civilians, light a fire under their asses and put them to work. In fact, tell all the Klokateers to line up and take their hoods off, you’re going to inspect every single one of them. … Yes, now. Good." Charles hung up, face lined with frustration.

For three days, Rebecca had eluded the entire armed forces of Mordland. Even their trained dogs had been unable to track her for long. For three days, Charles had stared at the map on his desk, as if he could see her creeping across it. The country was so scattered, small towns nestled between rocky cliffs, wild forests and bleak islands along a sere shoreline, there were so many places for vermin like her to hide.

He now also understood that he had underestimated the young Miss Nightrod. She was cleverer than Charles had expected. He’d wondered briefly if she’d escaped from Mordland, but it seemed extremely unlikely. Even if she’d managed to hotwire a car, it would have still taken most of a day to reach the nearest border, and by that time, his soldiers had every exit route covered. No, she was still here, he could sense it, hiding somewhere. But he was tired of playing her game, he wanted her found, now. 

Relax, Ofdensen, have a brandy. She’s not going to get away, it’s only a matter of time. He poured himself a double and gulped back half of it, wincing as the syrupy liquor burned a trail down his throat. The brown-haired manager sat back in his chair and tugged his tie loose. It had been a long, stressful day, he’d spent most of it barking orders and making threats he didn’t want to carry out, and he wanted so badly just to not have to deal with any of this bullshit. But that was a luxury he just didn’t have… unlike _some_ people.

He flashed back to the heated moans coming from Pickles’ room, as he had at least a dozen times since he’d heard them. Each time they resurfaced in Charles’ mind, they brought with them increasingly vivid, lurid mental images of what the two musicians were doing behind that door. 

Nathan’s muscular, glistening back, tendrils of damp raven hair clinging to his skin, the frontman snarling like a wild thing as he plowed a writhing, flushed, screaming Pickles, all arched spine and slender limbs, the perfect pinkness of the inside of his mouth as he gasped and cried… 

Charles moaned, sliding his fingers over the swell in his trousers, leaning his chair back to enjoy his brief moment of privacy. God, how he’d like to spend one night in that room, to not have to be the ‘robot’ for once, just take his tie off and have some damn fun… He wanted to be fucked, to drive his cock into a willing body, to feel nails dig into his back and teeth on his flesh, biting down until tears came to his eyes… He opened his slacks and took his glasses off, swiveling the chair away from the door, even though he knew it was locked.

It had been so long since he’d had a lover, male or female, as almost all his time was spent taking care of the boys. His boys… Charles loved each one of them in ways they couldn’t imagine; his nights were full of them, joy when they returned his affections in his dreams, and terror when his nightmares took them away from him. But Nathan… Charles imagined himself under those rippling arms, that predatory gaze, the sharp jagged line between the singer’s teeth, and the silken cascade of his hair swinging against his face as the he rammed that gorgeous cock home… "Ah… AH!" 

And Pickles under him, the drummer’s sweet, inviting smile, the way his dappled skin dipped towards his hipbones, how he looked at the Manager now and then, as if curious about things he shouldn’t be... It would be so delicious to touch him, hold him down, fuck him slowly and make him beg… 

"Ffffffuck!" Charles tensed in the chair, flogging his prick mercilessly, sweat soaking into the small of his back. He slid one of his desk drawers open, feeling around inside with immediate need. Oh… Oh fuck, that was it... Just, ah… just a little more… He gasped, the fantasy collapsing into white light as he climaxed. Moaning softly, he shuddered and shot his load into a crumpled tissue, obsessively tidy even in the throes of orgasm.

Panting, he dropped the wadded wet paper into the trash basket under his desk, which, he noted absently, needed to be emptied… Apparently, being Dethklok’s manager, dealing with the amount of stress that entailed, Charles needed to relax a lot.

51

It was colder in their new base, and there was less room, less privacy, but at least they had running water and electricity. People had eagerly taken the opportunity to have hot showers and clean clothes, and this small comfort had pumped fresh enthusiasm into the tired, frightened group.

Rebecca and Paolo sat with a hefty brown-haired man who was writing in a notepad. He tapped the pen on the lined paper and smiled, "How about _AntiKlok_?"

"Ugh, no, Ben. Try not to reference."

"Oh… sorry, um… I got it! _The Adversaries_."

"That one’s good, I like that."

Paolo rubbed his hands together, "Why do we need to have a name?"

"Because, sweetheart, having an identity will unite our followers." Rebecca smiled, running her hand down one of her swarthy companion’s inked arms. "it’s important to have a name to rally under… and it needs to be cool, something memorable." 

The stocky writer smiled, "What do you think, Paolo?"

"Eh, it is fine, I don’t know. I am too concerned with gift-wrapping to think about a name. Sure, okay, Adversary, sounds good."

"Adversaries." Rebecca nodded at the two men, "It’s powerful."

A short brunette woman approached the trio, "Paolo, Ofdensen’s troops are back. All the buildings in the town are being searched, and the Klokateers are being de-hooded for inspection."

"Fuck, this is no good! We must move as soon as possible." Paolo turned to the dark-haired woman, "July, how much time do we have?"

"A few hours, maybe? They are being very thorough." 

Rebecca grimaced, "Okay, I think I can work with that. Ben, I need you to go find some charcoal and grind it into powder for me." The stout man nodded and left to do as he was told.

July stood with her arms folded, "Callum and Jevora should be back soon, and we can move the inactive…" She stopped and turned on her heel as footsteps sounded behind her, but she recognized their owners and stepped aside to let them pass. 

Two strong young men carrying laden backpacks, six between them, approached their leader. The taller of the pair spoke, "We’re ready." He put his bags down, and Paolo opened one of them to inspect its contents, 

"Got these presents all wrapped tight?"

"Ribbons and everything." The shorter man grinned. "Don’t need to worry about them coming undone before the big show."

Paolo chuckled, "I’m sure everyone will enjoy these... except the people receiving them, of course." He closed up the bag carefully. "Good work, guys."

Rebecca stood up, her voice ringing out clear and slightly maniacal as she addressed the crowded room. "Listen up, everyone! We don’t have long before the cavalry’s riding our asses, so team up and get your gifts, kids, it’s party time!" 

She was answered by a volley of cheering.

52

Silence.

Pickles waited, even after it became obvious that Nathan wasn’t going to say anything. If he didn’t say anything either, Nathan wouldn’t reject him… if he didn’t say anything, time might just freeze right there, right at the moment before everything falls apart… But it didn’t, and the agonizing eternity between them had only been a few minutes.

"Nate’n… Are ya ganna answer me?"

"No."

The drummer’s gut twisted, a knife couldn’t have gone deeper. "Oh." He hadn’t expected such a flat, simple answer. No. Pickles took a deep breath, then another. No. He chewed his cheek, and then whispered brokenly "… Get out." 

"No."

Pickles ground his teeth, "Nate… I need ya ta get out, now." He clutched at his arms, fighting to stay calm. 

"Fuck you, Pickles. I’m not leaving!" Nathan growled, "You can’t just tell me I’m responsible for your _life_ and… what?!" He glowered at the other man, "What, Pickles? If I screw up, you’re going to kill yourself? What about right now?!"

"Nate…"

"Shut up. I can’t promise you shit if you’re gonna..." The singer rubbed his forehead, pressing his face into his palms for a moment. "I can’t do it, I screw everything up. And if I’m going to wake up one day and… and my best friend’s fucking dead, I don’t want it to be my fault!"

Pickles flushed, stunned by Nathan’s words. The blunt singer had cut through all his self-centered bullshit like a machete. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this."

"No shit." Nathan looked at his bandmate, trying to understand him, "You’re seriously fucked up… over me." He frowned, "Me. Why me, Pickles? Why’d you have to get like this?"

The red-haired man sat without speaking, breathing too fast, his chest tight and painful. He knew he’d gotten far too involved, too emotionally invested. They’d had a good thing going, fun between friends, but now… he was so afraid of being alone. More than that, he was afraid of _dying_ alone. 

Pickles knew he wasn’t likely to get very much older. He’d spent too many years burning away his life, and eventually they were going to catch up with him. He felt healthy enough now, but in ten years? Things could change so quickly, and every time he looked in the mirror, his hair seemed a little thinner, the lines on his face a little deeper. Maybe he was being selfish, but he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. He wanted all the time he had left to be with his beautiful Nathan.

"Nate… jest tell me ya love me."

"You know I do, dumbass." Nathan got up and knelt in front of the armchair, "You don’t know how long I’ve cared about you, you little shit." He pulled Pickles into his arms, rising from the floor and sitting with the unresisting drummer in his lap. "I promise…"

Pickles looked up, leaning into his friend’s warmth. "Ya don’t have ta."

"It’s a different promise." The singer smiled, "I promise to try my best not to fuck up, even though I probably will… but if I do fuck up, it won’t be on purpose. It’ll just be because..." He leant in to kiss Pickles’ cheek, murmuring, "...I’m a fuck up, just like you." 


	12. Roads To Mordhaus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's party time! All the guests are here and it's time to TURN IT UP.
> 
> Warnings: Death, angst, violence, 'Becca you scary!.

Part 12: Roads To Mordhaus.

52

.

The Adversaries had swollen in number virtually overnight, it seemed every member knew someone who had been wronged by the great Metal Machine, and as soon as they had a name, a plan, those people had turned up in droves. 

Before Dethklok, the villages in these hills had been occupied by farming families for generations, families who found their land bought out from under them, their homes overrun by strangers who pillaged and ruined everything in their wake. It wasn’t hard to find those among them willing to take up arms. 

Soon, nearly three hundred eyes turned with bright anger towards Mordhaus.

They slipped into the trees like wolves, stealing through the night towards the walls of the great citadel of Dethklok. Pools of light swept across the ground, but they were predictable and easy to avoid. Once they split up, there would be no communication between teams, they knew any radio frequencies would be monitored, so they had planned their every move in advance. They simply had to be patient, be ready to move when the moment came.

Paolo led his team to a muddy drainage culvert, long forgotten by the guards. A row of iron bars blocked the passage, but two of them had been bent aside. The slenderest and quickest of their crew had been chosen to squirm through the narrow gap and deliver their gifts. 

Closer to the main gate, Rebecca hid with her group, waiting for their signal. The woman stood at the edge of the wooded rise, watching the guards through binoculars. Her once platinum-blonde hair was now ashy-black and slicked back with a greasy mix of charcoal, Vaseline, and hair gel, making her even more unrecognizable. 

Jevora’s team moved stealthily in the dark, the finest snipers amongst their ranks, silently taking their positions. Their quarry had no clue. When it was time, they would strike with the speed and accuracy of rattlesnakes.

Ben led the civilians, the native children of the harsh, bleak country that was now Mordland. They were by far the most numerous group, but it was decided that since these people had the most to lose, their position should be the least dangerous. They would hang back until the first three teams had done their jobs… and then they would take their due in blood.

53

Murderface glanced across to where two of his bandmates were sitting together, quietly watching a documentary about sharks in the large entertainment room. In the long absences of their singer and drummer, the three musicians had become sullen and aimless. Skwisgaar no longer needled Toki, and even put up with the Norwegian’s oddly-placed affection, letting the other guitarist lean up against him for comfort.

The bassist felt an odd pang of envy. He didn’t really want to cuddle up to the Scandinavians, but he would have liked _someone_ to tolerate that kind of closeness from him. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. And even the thought of it made him feel insecure, bringing his defenses up even before anyone could criticize him.

"Jeesch, you guysch look scho gay like that."

As if he’d just suddenly realized he’d had his arm around Toki’s shoulders, Skwisgaar jerked it back and scooted away from the other guitarist, scowling at the pudgy American.

Toki squeaked, "Hey!" He pouted at the tall, silent Swede, and then whined at Murderface, "Why you gots to ruins everyt’ing, huh? Justs because you don’ts got any friends, why you always ams such a dumb dildos!?"

"Hey, I juscht don’t want to schee you two making out in front of me."

Skwisgaar settled down again, now a safe ‘heterosexual’ distance from Toki. He huffed and smirked at the rhythm guitarist, "Ahhh, ignores him, he justs beingks a dick, like always."

William was getting an insulting retort primed when one of their employees, still wearing a hood in their presence, approached the trio. 

"My lords, there is a doctor from the Manhattan Psychiatric Care Center, he says he needs to speak to you. Will you see him, or shall I have him disposed of?"

"No, dat ams fine," Skwisgaar tilted his chin at the Klokateer, "Brings him up."

As the hood exited, Murderface grinned, "Thisch isch it, guysch. Get your game fasches on."

"Games faces?"

"He ams meaningks, Toki, dat we has to looks like we ams tellingks de truths, when we tells de docktor dems stuffs Ofdensen writes for us."

"Ohhh." Toki looked up as the hood returned with an older gentleman. He immediately tried to look as solemn as possible; this was going to be tough.

54

Adrenaline raced through the teen’s body as he sprinted through the twisting passages between buildings, two guards hot on his trail. He had already made his delivery, and he knew he was expendable in the grand scheme of things, but he wouldn’t make it easy for them.

Just a few more meters… just… No! He jerked back as rough hands grabbed his clothing, clamped around his arms. He struggled and kicked, but the guard held him fast. The other came up alongside the first and drew back his fist. The boy’s head filled with pain and sparks of light, and then darkness as he slid out of consciousness.

He awoke laying on his back, unable to move. He could hear someone talking nearby, a voice familiar to every branded Gear. The one he’d heard for the first time mere months ago, when he’d taken his own oaths, lying through his teeth just to get inside the belly of the beast that had taken his brother. Charles Foster Ofdensen: the devil himself in a suit and tie.

"How many? …And they’re all dead? Yes… Well, find them." 

The teenager flexed against the rope restraints, looking around. He was tied to a steel table, in a windowless room with a single exit, which was flanked by two hooded guards. The smartly dressed CFO stood nearby, with his back turned as he spoke into his phone.

"Get Dethklok to safety first, then evacuate."

The boy started laughing, drawing the manager’s attention. Charles clicked his cell shut and turned to stand over the young man, "You’re awake. Good. You can answer my questions now."

"Fuck you, Ofdensen."

The manager smiled, expecting resistance, "And I haven’t even asked you anything yet. I’m glad you’re being _so_ cooperative." He took something out of his jacket pocket, a slender coil of wire. Charles drew the thin, shining line taught between his fingers, "I’ve been itching to try out a few new interrogation techniques."

The boy narrowed his eyes, refusing to be intimidated, he laughed again, "It doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll never stop us!"

"Then you might as well tell me."

"My name is Callum Atherdale. My brother was… AGKH!" Charles had seized his prisoner’s hand and driven the sharpened end of the wire into the soft flesh of his palm.

The Manager spoke softly, slowly pressing and twisting the wire, "That’s not what I want to know. How many others are there in your group? Where are they?"

Callum stuttered at the pain, "M-my brother w-was Klokateer 4410196, his name was Connor, and he d-died…" The wire slid further in, tearing its way down towards his wrist, "B-because Dethklok w-wanted …"

Charles snapped, "You’ll answer my questions." He looped part of the fine, glittering wire around the young man’s index finger. "Five of your conspirators are already dead. Where are the bombs, Callum?"

"They wanted more _brutal_ spires on their ugly…" The boy screamed when the wire pulled tight and sliced through the flesh and cartilage of his finger. The manager tugged harshly, severing the digit with a spray of blood. "Gaaghh! Fuck… F-fuck you!"

With a controlled tone, Charles tried again, "Where are the _bombs_ , Callum?" He was about to loop the wire around another finger when he heard a faint beeping from the boy’s waist. Investigating, he found a plastic sports watch, which had been set to go off at that moment.

"It’s too late, fucker! Hahaha! It’s too la-"

A thundering, ear-splitting blast of noise rent the air, the earth shuddering as it echoed away. Ofdensen swore, gripping the edge of the table, momentarily dazed from the explosion. He glared down at the bleeding boy for a moment, pressing the auto-dial on his phone, but even before he could say anything, a second explosion rang out, this one further away, and from a different direction. 

Mordhaus was under attack, and most of his army were spread out across the countryside on a wild goose chase… for Rebecca. Somehow she was responsible for this. Charles’ face turned red with rage, and as he hurried towards the exit, the normally calm manager made a gesture at one of the two guards.

The guard closed the door behind Ofdensen, and turned towards Callum. Taking two steps towards the captive youth, his hand moving to his hip without a word. The nameless, faceless guard raised the gun and fired. When the crack of the pistol echoed away, he and the other hood departed, leaving the corpse cooling on the table 

55

Paolo detonated the third charge while the echoes from the first two were still loud enough to distract from the smaller blast. Smoke curled from the culvert, where the grate had been completely blown apart, and the armed group marched through the murky passage into Mordhaus.

Above, as the scene within the walls disintegrated into chaos, shots rang out from the trees, and the guards in the sniper towers fell, one at a time. 

One of the guards managed to take his killer with him, the rebel’s corpse crashing noisily through the branches to cold earth Jevorya waited, glancing at his watch, and then descended from his arboreal perch. His men would meet up with him at their rendezvous point, where they’d get ready to breach the battleground.

Rebecca watched the hoods running around in the dust and smoke and confusion. She made a hand gesture and her team surged to overtake the gate. They dispatched the guards within minutes and opened the great iron doors.

Once the guards and snipers were dead, Ben marched out into the road to Mordhaus and raised his fist, the full fury of the Adversaries spilling past him. They stormed the gates, cutting down anyone who stood against them. With bullets first, then the second wave with swords, axes, and pitchforks.

To their credit, the Klokateers recovered quickly, they fired into the onslaught, and several of the rebels dropped, pooling red on the dusty earth. Still, their numbers were too few, and their attackers were organized. Soon the ground was littered with bodies, soaked with blood, and the airs thick with hoots and screams.

Rebecca’s team met up with Pablo and his men, and together, they set upon the armory, seizing and distributing weapons and ammunition. They took out the few employees they found, but the building was otherwise empty, as most of Ofdensen’s forces were still outside the complex. By now, they’d been called back, but the Adversaries would be well armed and ready for them before their opponents showed up.

Devora led his men through the culvert and emerged upon a scene of bloody chaos. Dethklok’s recording facility had received one of their ‘gifts’, and now the aboveground part of the building was a half-collapsed ruin of smouldering rubble and equipment. In the distance, smoke rose from the second detonation, which had become the main focus of every still-living employee.

The target was Dethklok’s entertainment center.

55

Ten minutes earlier. 

The first explosion went off.

Pickles’ eyes flew open and he jerked upright in Nathan’s arms. 

The singer, similarly alert, stared towards the window, seeing a black cloud rising in the distance. "Fuck… Something just blew up!"

"Dood, I know! Whattaya think it was?"

"I don’t know, stuff blows up sometimes, maybe it-" Another explosion cut Nathan off, and he wasn’t sure, but it sounded like a third immediately followed it.

"Shit! It’s a fucking attack! We gatta get out of here! We gatta find Afdensen!" Pickles scrambled to his feet, followed closely by his bandmate. Even before they got to ground level, they could hear the screams, the hollering and gunfire… 

Nathan gripped Pickles’ shoulders, looking out at the horrifying mess. "We can’t get out that way." He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew they were in deep, deep trouble.

56

Twelve minutes earlier. 

The attendant hood brought a tray with tea and biscuits for the gentleman doctor from the East Coast. The musicians had no taste for tea, but Toki worked his way through several cookies, listening but not saying much as the psychiatrist asked questions about Rebecca Nightrod.

"Oh yeah, sche wasch yelling at Nathan about all kindsch of schit, it wasch like sche couldn’t be happy if sche didn’t have schomething to yell about."

"Ja, and, uh, she gets into a fights wit’ de drummer, I ams not at all knowingks why, she goes crazy!" Skwisgaar nodded, glancing at Toki, who kept shoving raspberry jam shortbreads into his mouth.

The doctor wrote down a few notes, then looked at the Norwegian, "It says in your report that she verbally attacked you. Can you tell me what happened before that? If there was any way you might have provoked her?"

Toki might have answered, but at that moment, everything erupted into noise and fire. There was nothing but pain and light, and the vague awareness of falling… having fallen… horrible pain. Then darkness. Then Nothing.


	13. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. A few questions answered, painfully.

Part 13: Silence

57

Skwisgaar pushed himself upright, choking on the smoke and dust as he reoriented himself amid the wreckage. He was dizzy, ears ringing from the blast, and he felt a numbing ache all across one side of his body. When he touched his ribs there, he nearly blacked out from the wave of pain. But he was alive, and his precious hands had survived intact.

The Swede heard a dull moan from nearby, and he crept carefully towards its source, finding Murderface beneath a toppled couch. The bassist was burned and bleeding heavily from a long gash in his forehead, unconscious and breathing shallowly. As he was tugging at the edge of the sofa, a couple of hoods arrived and moved the heavy piece of furniture out of the way.

Skwisgaar ignored the Gears, who had started investigating the rubble, and patted the pudgy musician’s singed cheek, "Hey, hey dere, Muddaface, yous okay? Ah skit… Wakes up now, ja? You gots to wakes up." He shook the short bassist until he got a moaned complaint out of him.

"Fuuuuck youuuu…" Murderface coughed and sat up slowly, wincing and hissing when he tried to put weight on his left arm, and then clutching it with his other hand. He looked up at Skwisgaar with uncharacteristic fear in his yellow eyes. "I think my arm’sch broken."

"Fuck, okay uh, ah, justs sit dere, and uh… I calls de paras-medicals … Oh." The blond guitarist paused in awareness, "Where ams Toki?" Skwisgaar scanned the mess surrounding him, there was just so much of it. By this point, another three Klokateers had arrived to help. There really should have been far more, and he wondered why there weren’t, but the Swede’s attention was pulled by a shout and redoubled digging.

When he saw what the hoods had uncovered, Skwisgaar’s stomach turned. The gory swatch of blood and flesh and ruined cloth was barely recognizable as ever having been a human being. One of their sawblade-shaped tables had been sent spinning on its edge by the force of the explosion, very effectively shredding through the man’s upper torso before it lodged into one of the larger amps and toppled the 400-pound audio component onto the corpse’s skull.

The blond guitarist turned and wretched, agony arcing through his ribs as his insides heaved and spilled out onto the dust-coated remains of the floor. Murderface watched Skwisgaar vomit, and then turned to see what had triggered it.

"Oh schit. Ofdenschen’s gonna be pissched."

58

Rebecca had been too busy issuing orders to notice, but Paolo had seen the two musicians scuttling back into their nest like cockroaches. The singer and his scrawny drummer, he recognized them instantly, their faces burned into his brain by a fever of hate. The tall Latin slipped away from the group, a sleek pistol tucked into his belt.

Dethklok had taken away his family, his home, and his capacity to show mercy. The band, as a force, had destroyed so much, ir was nothing but a great greedy all-consuming beast… and now Paolo was going to take a little back. Not only for himself, but for everyone who’d suffered under the heel of the oppressive company. He knew that despite their power and wealth, these were just men, just pawns of the great Metal Machine, but if they were taken away, all the gears would grind to a halt.

They were easy to follow, clumsy and panicked, like wounded animals. Paolo could hear them, the redhead’s voice shrill with fear. He tracked them patiently, waiting for the right moment. It wasn’t enough to just kill them, he had fantasized about this for years, it would have to be poetic, an act of revenge and justice, it had to be perfect.

59

 

"N-Nh… Nate’n! Where are we goin’?" Pickles whimpered quietly, eyes wide. 

"I don’t know, out. Away."

"W-what… all those dead… dey were all dead!" All the times he’d been glib about death, telling people to kill themselves for Dethklok, Pickles never really thought about what that meant. Death was always just something that happened to other people, far away, but now he was in the middle of a war zone, and he could still smell the reek of burned flesh and fear. 

Nathan didn’t say anything, he just gripped the drummer’s wrist tightly, pulling the smaller man along behind him. The frontman was operating on instinct; he had to protect his lover, his band, and his own life. In that order. 

He knew there was another way out, an employee entrance downstairs, but he was only dimly aware of where it was. Nathan stopped at the bottom of the stairs, where long windowless hallways split off in three directions, trying to get his bearings. They really should have signs or maps or something down here, the singer reflected.

Pickles was thankful for the moment’s pause, his lungs were burning and he felt dizzy from hyperventilating, but as he slowly exhaled, in that moment of quiet, he was sure he heard something. The drummer tugged at his bandmate’s sleeve, hissing softly, "Nate! Sahmone’s fallowin’ us."

The vocalist looked down at the frightened Wisconsinite, then back along the dimly lit hallway. He couldn’t hear anything, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything to hear. Nathan jerked his chin toward one of the corridors, and Pickles hurried ahead of him as silently as possible. Following the redhead, Nathan glanced back again, not sure if he should be thankful not to see anyone there.

60

Ofdensen’s expensive dress shoes skidded and threatened to slide out from under him as he raced toward the smoking ruin of Dethklok’s rec center, but he would not slow down, could not get there fast enough. There were bodies on the ground all around him, and the air stank of their blood, but he didn’t care, they didn’t matter. Heart pounding, Charles held his phone against his jaw, yelling in panic at the hospital dispatch: They had to get there _now_. There was no time… no time, oh god… he could smell the burning wood, and he flashed back to the last time Mordhaus was under attack, the fire and the feeling of his body breaking, the ache of deep scars that had only recently healed...

The manager was stunned by the devastation, this was so much worse than what the Revengencers’ had managed to do. At the very least, the majority of that attack had been focused on the area around the huge dragon-headed longhouse, which was still being reconstructed, but most of the rest of the complex had been put out before too much structural damage was done.

Charles snapped out of it when he saw two members of his beloved Dethklok being helped from the ruined building by Klokateers. Skwisgaar’s face was white beneath a grimy veil of soot, and Murderface was bloody and limping, holding his arm protectively. The first ambulance had already arrived by then, and the triage staff immediately set to treating the musicians’ wounds. 

"Where’s Toki!?" Charles’ gaze swept the piles of debris.

The guitarist coughed, "We not knows. He’s was here befores, when we’s talkingks to de dock-tor."

Murderface grunted, gesturing with his elbow to the swath of gore spread across a section of rubble, "Doc’s dead. Real messchy too."

Charles cringed slightly, then focused, "Whatever. They’ll send another one." He turned to the handful of hoods who were still digging, fewer than a dozen had responded to the emergency, the rest were either dead or still on their way back to Mordhaus. "Ok, people, listen good. Toki Wartooth is missing, and until we find him, this is a state of emergency. All of you, nothing matters now except finding Toki. That is all." 

61

It had seemed an eternity of suffering, the pain of being slowly suffocated by crushing weight, wanting to scream and not being able to draw breath to do so. But finally the pain was subsiding, he was growing numb, his heart slowing from lack of oxygen. His ears rang with a throbbing roar, and his vision flooded with sparks against the darkness.

He tried to move, scraping his fingernails against rough broken concrete, he managed to croak and gasp shallowly, but it wasn’t enough, his throat fluttered and his chest spasmed in rebellion, needing air and getting none. 

Toki realized, distantly, that he was dying. Did it matter? He’d come close to death before, in Norway, as a child. Nights spent cold and hungry and alone in the snow. But he had fought, survived. But there was no way to fight this, he could feel his limbs growing cold, losing feeling, his thoughts becoming disjointed and irrationally calm.

He’d done well with his life, he supposed, he had at least gotten away from his parents, enjoyed himself for a few years. He’d had more handed to him than he ever imagined he would, or believed he deserved. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, and that’s why it was ending this way. But he’d spent his brief adulthood doing something he loved, with people he loved, even if he was never allowed to say it. Toki regretted that could never be close to his bandmates like he’d wanted, there had always been a barrier there.

The pulsing light behind his eyes became a riot of fireworks as his brain began to flood itself with chemicals, its last hurrah. As his strength gave out, he began to feel a lightening, as if the weight pressing down on him was being lifted. Tears welled and spilled down his dust-rimed cheek. Don’t cry, Toki, there’s no point. There’s no point fighting it either, might as well cry… might as well stop … rest… stop.

62

Jevora stood just within the gates of Mordhaus, his brown skin glistening in the early morning sunlight, tightly curled hair swaying around his shoulders. He watched the approach of Ofdensen’s army with slitted golden eyes. Lion’s eyes. 

The Klokateers had been called back hours ago, and the first wave had finally made it. There were a couple hundred of them, and who knew how many others were on their way. But Jevora stood between them and their goal. A lone fighter, apparently unarmed, but not without friends.

As the rumbling line of black vehicles neared the gates, Jevora stepped back quickly, then turned around and ran. At that moment, he triggered the small detonator in his hand, and the space between the giant iron gates erupted into fire and thunder, throwing a couple of motorcycles spinning through the air, sans riders. The sniper rolled to the ground, sitting up just in time to see the gates scream on their hinges and fall in impossible slow motion, descending upon the burning carcasses of flesh and steel. Smaller explosions flared in the aftermath, gas tanks bursting, oil igniting and feeding the flames, producing a thick wall of dark smoke.

Jevora smiled in self-satisfaction, and got to his feet, dusting himself off. By now, the rest of his team would be at their target, getting ready to launch the final phase, and he had little time to waste on admiring the splendorous destruction he’d caused. 

As he turned to leave, Jevora heard an odd pinging sound coming from the fire. The dead Gears’ rifles going off in the heat, the bullets ricocheting aimlessly, trapped by red-hot metal. Except for one; the one that glanced off one of the burning motorcycles and punched a ragged hole through Jevora’s back.

A one in a million shot, the sniper thought appreciatively, as the blood bloomed across his chest, and he fell.

63

Outside, in the slanting early light, the scene was gruesome and real in a way that Nathan had never actually seen before. His dreams, for all their violence, were shallow imitations of the reality spread out before him. The ground was awash with filth, blood and shit and all the other fluids a human body contained, the bitter stink of bile and vomit among them.

The long pale masses of intestines, the sliced flesh that looked so much like any piece of meat he’d ever eaten rare, the buzz of flies and stinging hornets, and the cries of gulls and crows fighting over the fresh spoils. This was beyond horror, this was real.

He looked at Pickles, who was standing there with a lost, scared look Nathan had never seen before. The redhead was always the one with the answers, the one who knew how to deal with things rationally, but now there was nothing in the drummer’s wide jade eyes but the futile, sickening fear of death.

"Pickles?" Nathan rubbed his forearms, not sure what to say.

"Everyone’s dead."

"Brutal."

The drummer looked up at him, "Don’t say theat… this ain’t th’ time." He paused, coughed, "We’re gahnna die too, ain’t we?"

"I… I don’t know…" The vocalist was cut off as another roaring wave of sound made the ground tremble, this detonation was further away than the others, but no less of a shock. 

Nathan reflexively turned toward the noise, and in doing so, he caught a glimpse of movement in the doorway of the building they’d just fled. Someone was there, someone was following them, he couldn’t see who, couldn’t tell if they were armed, if there were just the one, or many. Not wanting to find out, Nathan quickly stooped to lift his terrified bandmate over his shoulder, and he ran.

64

"Here!"

Skwisgaar tore himself away from the triage nurse as soon as he heard the shouting, stumbling back over the broken stone and concrete to where the hoods had found his bandmate.

Toki wasn’t moving. The Klokateers pulled him from the ruins and laid him out on the ground. Skwisgaar knelt down and took the younger man’s wrist. Cold. No pulse. 

Voice trembling, "…Toki?" Fear surged through the Swede’s bloodstream. His bandmate was dead. The young man he’d spent so long taunting and belittling because he couldn’t bring himself to accept that he’d had a friend. "Little Toki… no."

Charles was there moments after Skwisgaar, but he’d hung back when he saw the tall guitarist kneel down, saw the grief in that aristocratic Scandinavian face. He glanced over at Murderface, who had intuited what was wrong and stayed where he was, eyes on the ground, letting the nurse finish bandaging his head.

Skwisgaar’s mind reeled, he suddenly found himself angry, furious with the younger man. _How could you do this? How could you just leave me? You were my only friend… and I never told you… and now…_ The rage and pain tore itself out of him in a nasal scream, "I hates you Toki! You… you fucksing idiot! You… I _hates_ you!" He curled his hands into fists and brought them both down on the Norwegian’s still chest, feeling the sickly give of broken ribs.

And Toki gasped.

Maybe Odin was in a merciful mood, maybe the Valkyries had decided Toki hadn’t yet proven himself worthy to enter the gates of Asgard, maybe it was just some great cosmic joke. When the Swede’s hands came pounding down onto Toki’s heart, his entire body jerked under the blow, chest rising in agony as the young man drew a ragged, screaming breath, then started choking.

Charles was there instantly, lifting Toki by the shoulders as blood flecked around the Norwegian’s mouth, then poured from it. "Toki! Can you hear me?" More coughing. The manager looked up at Skwisgaar, who was kneeling there in shock, wide-eyed and biting his knuckles. Behind the blond, the paramedics were already bringing a stretcher.

Toki laying on the ground. Toki dead. Not dead. Toki coughing up blood. Laying on the stretcher. Hands holding him, fastening straps across his limbs. Crimson fluid pouring from Toki’s mouth. The wrong shape of his chest. The blue tint of his lips and fingers. Toki dead… not dead… gasping for air… The blood…

Skwisgaar stared, unable to say anything, unable to think, these horrible images flashing through his mind in a mindless repeating cycle. Even when Toki was being carried away, lifted into the ambulance, and Charles was shaking the tall blond, making him get up, pushing him into the vehicle with them, talking to him, it was all gibberish. 

He’d been a nihilist most of his life, but the world had never felt so small and dark.


	14. Spin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may have forgotten someone, but I didn't.  
> More death and mayhem, yay!  
> Everyone's gotta get at least a little bit f'd up, right?

Part Fourteen: Spin

65

Nathan ran aimlessly, panting with exertion, clutching Pickles’ slim body to his chest. Twice now, he’d turned a corner only to find their way blocked by fire and burning corpses. The rebels were setting everything alight, and Nathan could still hear gunfire and yelling, mostly the wild, adrenaline-fueled war whoops of the victors.

He had to stop, catch his breath, figure out where he was. It was so easy to get lost in the maze of alleys and narrow streets that wound through the close clutter of towering stone buildings. Mordhaus was so big, and there were so many parts of it that the band had never familiarized themselves with, had never needed to think about. These bleak passages were the dominion of Dethklok’s servants and guards, and now they were deserted, their leagues of faithful now just charring flesh on the fiery ruin of their empire.

Pickles squirmed when the singer finally stopped running, "Nate, dood, put me down! I can walk." He tugged his shirt down as he was set on his feet, and took a few deep breaths, pausing to lean against the cold stone at his back…

He just about leapt out of his skin when Nathan’s Dethphone went off, its owner just as startled by the loud riff. 

"Shit, shut up!" The singer tore the device from his belt and flung it to the ground, stomping on it until it went quiet. Nathan stood over the crushed phone, he’d forgotten he had it, and now it was destroyed. "Uh… Pickles, you don’t have _your_ phone, do you?"

"No… I forgot… Oh fuck…" The drummer froze, staring past his friend’s shoulder. "Someone’s coming… dere’s a guy."

An icy chill ran up Nathan’s back as he turned to look. He was certain it was the same man he’d glimpsed earlier: tall, muscular, dark hair and tattoos. Their pursuer was still some distance behind them, but Nathan could see a glint of metal in his hand. "Fuck… fuck. How is he…?"

Pickles tugged on the singer’s arm. "We gatta go, Nate!" The big guy nodded and followed his companion. He could all but hear the footsteps behind them.

 

66

They weren’t answering their phones. Charles swore under his breath, then glanced over at Skwisgaar and Murderface, who were sitting silently on the other side of the ambulance. Between them, Toki breathed shallowly with the help of a Klokateer holding a hand respirator, his eyelashes fluttered, the only sign of life.

Skwisgaar was still unresponsive, staring blankly at his fallen bandmate’s bruised face, his long fingers absently pulling at each other for something to do. Beside him, Murderface was uncomfortable both physically and emotionally. His arm had been dislocated, but wasn’t broken, and the triage nurse had put it in a sling and given him a shot of something that apparently didn’t help much.

Charles didn’t want to leave the boys injured and afraid like this, but he had to find Nathan and Pickles, fear for them was clawing its way through his chest like a trapped animal. He turned to Murderface, currently the most lucid of the three. "William, I need you to be in charge, take care of Skwisgaar and Toki for me. I’m leaving to find your other bandmates… hopefully alive."

Murderface nodded quietly. Usually he’d relish the perceived authority, but under these circumstances, it was a sobering responsibility. "Schure, Ofdenschen. I can do that." He scowled down at his singed and blood-smeared shirt as the ambulance pulled up in front of the hospital, not wanting to see Charles leave.

The hoods that had arrived after the rec center bombing had followed the ambulance in their own transportation. Charles gave them curt orders to protect the medical building, then commandeered their Jeep-style ATV and headed for the last place he knew the singer and drummer had been.

A team of medical staff emerged to help the wounded musicians into the hospital. They tried to coax Skwisgaar to leave the ambulance, but the tall guitarist wouldn’t move until they took Toki in, at which point he followed the gurney like a lost dog. Murderface noticed this, and he worried about the tall Swede’s state of mind. He had skeletons of his own (some actual, literal skeletons,) but he tried not to let them interfere with the band. If things got weird between the two guitarists, it could truly fuck things up.

When Skwisgaar tried to follow Toki into the emergency surgery wing and was stopped, Murderface had to pull the suddenly hysterical blond away to keep him from attacking the orderlies. The bassist pushed the slender man into a chair and stood over him to keep him there. "Fuck, what’sch wrong with you!?"

The guitarist moaned and clutched at his arms, staring past Murderface. "Toki… Toki is goings to die. And I don’t wants him to."

Murderface sighed, feeling himself soften. It had been so long he’d had any friends, since any of them had, and he knew Skwisgaar had gotten close to the other guitarist out of mutual loneliness. He’d been jealous, but now William felt bad about giving them shit over it. "He’sch hurt real bad, dude, but he’sch pretty tough, don’t freak out, it’ll be okay." Deep down, he really hoped he was telling the truth.

 

67

"Where’s Paolo?" Rebecca scanned the crowd. The Adversaries had lost almost a third of their number, and all those who had survived knew to meet at this spot. But the tall Latin was not among them

Ben stood behind the tall woman, "I saw him take off after we took the armory."

"Where did he go?"

"He didn’t tell you? Shit, I don’t know. You know how Paolo gets ideas into his head sometimes, but I’m sure he’ll be fine."

"Well … damnit, he’d better show up soon. We can’t wait, the rest of the Gears are going to get here eventually." Rebecca didn’t want to admit she was worried about her lover. She wasn’t supposed to get emotionally attached to the man, their relationship, however pleasant, was primarily one of business. "…Let’s get those gates open."

She watched her followers make preparations for the final stage of their long-planned revenge. Behind the thick metal doors, the prize awaited them. Their ultimate weapon, their freedom: The Dethcopter II. 

 

 

68

The high-walled courtyard was a place they’d never seen before, completely out of sorts with the bleak, quazi-gothic look of the rest of the huge complex. Someone had turned this hidden patch of earth into a garden. It was the first time they had seen flowers growing inside Mordhaus, and the place was a colourful riot of living things that could survive the scarcity of sunlight.

Even if they’d known about the garden, Nathan and Pickles wouldn’t have cared much, particularly not given the situation, but it was still a surprising sight. The flowers were quickly forgotten, however, because of the second thing they noticed: That there was only one way in or out of the enclosed space, and looking back, they realized that was no longer an option.

Paolo stood there, his face twisted into a crazed smile. His arm extended, almost as if in offering, holding up the glinting pistol and aiming it at Nathan.

"My _Lords_." He spat the words bitterly, then laughed. "It’s been a long time since I called you that."

"Wh-what do ya want?" Pickles stuttered. His eyes grew wide as the tall man approached them, tracing the path of the gun’s barrel towards Nathan’s heart. 

Paolo stopped about eight feet away from his target, eyes crazed and flashing from singer to drummer anxiously. "You… don’t even know who I am. And you took everything I had."

Nathan watched the man with the gun, standing as if in stunned silence, but his mind was working on the problem. Suddenly, he growled menacingly, drawing Paolo’s attention fully onto him. At the same time, he gripped Pickles’ shoulders and pushed him aside, rasping, "Run."

The drummer staggered a few meters from the force of Nathan’s shove, but he couldn’t run, not while that gun was aimed at his best friend. Paolo hissed, turning the pistol towards Pickles, "Don’t you go anywhere, you piece of shit. You stay right there."

"Over here, fucker!" Nathan roared, teeth bared. "I’m going to tear your head off!"

"Shut up! Both of you stop moving!" Paolo aimed at Nathan again, "You listen to me! You did this! You took my family, my home! Paved right over the house where I grew up! Everything!"

Pickles looked up at Nathan, then at the ranting Latin. "Dood… that sucks, I know…"

"God _DAMN_ it, shut up! You don’t know shit. You’re nothing but puppets, you’re not even the fucking monsters you pretend to be!"

"What do you _want_ from us?" Nathan took a step toward Paolo, eyes narrowed with anger. "What do you want us to fucking do, huh?"

"I told you not to _move_!" Paolo yelled, but Nathan weighed the odds that the Latin was bluffing, and took another step forward.

Paolo shot him. The big man shuddered and reeled back as the bullet punched its way through his body. Nathan just stood there, stunned, feeling thick, hot fluid pouring down his belly and back. The tapered piece of lead had gone right through him, it didn’t even hurt… it just felt… cold.

A shrill, almost inhuman screech cut the moment, a flurry of movement, and Pickles was on Paolo, who yelped and swore loudly, knocked flat onto his stomach by the furious drummer. The pistol skidded across the ground as the sinewy redhead latched on to the dark-haired rebel, screaming and punching and clawing at the taller man.

Nathan choked, blood on his lips. He was suddenly angry. This skinny fucker had shot him. _Shot_ Nathan Explosion… and he hadn’t gone down. He gasped for breath, pain spreading through his torso, but he was still standing. The brawny vocalist snarled and marched over to where Pickles was still grappling with the tall man, small hands wrapped around the Latin’s throat. Nathan nudged the redhead aside, none too gently, and grabbed Paolo by the hair.

Paolo looked up into the deep jungle eyes of Dethklok’s frontman. He croaked hoarsely, tried to say something, anything, but he knew he had lost. He had shot Nathan, just as he’d always imagined, but the raven-haired brute was not dead, he hadn’t even fallen… maybe he wasn’t just a man after all. Maybe…

Nathan’s hand clasped over Paolo’s jaw, and with a quick jerk, he broke the rebel’s neck.

Looking up from where he’d tumbled to the ground, Pickles whispered in the sudden quiet, "Nate’n… you… yer hurt."

"Yeah, I know." The singer knelt by the tattooed man’s corpse, looking down at himself, at the blood that had soaked into his clothing, he could hear the liquid rattle as he tried to breathe. "I… need to get… get help." Nathan pressed his hand to the wound in his chest and coughed raggedly, bloody foam dripping from his mouth. Pickles helped his bandmate to his feet, and in silence they left the secret garden together.

69

Yellow eyes watched the growling black vehicle navigate streets paved with flesh and blood. The wolves had emerged once the fighting died down, drawn by the smell of fresh meat. They knew better than to attack living people, but now the rangy beasts were happily glutting themselves on human flesh. Their blood-slicked muzzles raised to follow as Charles drove past them.

He wasn’t surprised to find Pickles’ room deserted, but he’d hoped to find at least some clue, some trace. Pickles’ Dethphone had been left behind, and there were damp towels on the foot of the bed, but no signs of struggle. That was good, they’d probably gotten out when the fireworks began.

But where had they gone? He’d taken a moment to think about it, trying to piece together the events of the last five or six hours. The boulevard in front of the building had been a diorama of horrific violence. The boys probably would have been smart enough to avoid that, so they would have gone out the back. Charles parked the ATV, and pulled up a map of his immediate surroundings on the vehicle’s console.

He looked up instinctively at the sound of distant thunder. Not thunder, Charles knew, another detonation. Coming from somewhere near the pier. He watched a new column of smoke rise to join the thick haze overhead. God damn it, what were they blowing up _now_?

70

The late summer sun sat fat and heavy at the apex of the sky, pressing down on the parched, dusty earth. Midday had come, and air had grown oppressively hot and fetid. 

Nathan’s entire body ached as he forced himself to keep walking, taking slow, tortured breaths, one hand on his friend’s shoulder as he plodded along yet another narrow alley that looked like all the other alleys. He stopped, dazed, as the sound of yet another bomb blast rolled over them. It was far away, and therefore unimportant, and Nathan was too exhausted to pay attention.

"Don’t stahp, Nate, we gatta keep goin’… I’m… we’re gahnna get outta here, babe, cahm on." Pickles tugged at Nathan’s arm, wincing at the sickly sucking from deep in his bandmate’s lungs.

"Just… let me." Nathan leaned against one of the cool, solid stone walls, staining it with his blood. He was sweating, despite feeling cold, but he breathed easier with the hard surface pressing against his back.

"Don’t you dare! We gatta keep goin’, I’m nat gahnna let ya die, Nate, I can’t…" Pickles narrowed his eyes, "What kind of fucking pussy are you, huh? Big bad Nate’n Explosion? Gonna jest fall over from a little piece of lead? Yer nat brutal! Yer jest a fuckin’ fag!"

Nathan groaned, pressing his cheek against the stone, "Y-you’re the fag… you let me … Hnn." His head spun and his knees turned watery. "Pickles…"

"Move, now!" The drummer grabbed a handful of Nathan’s long hair, twisting it around his fist and started pulling, making the big vocalist moan in protest. Pickles was not going to let this happen, he refused to let Nathan give up, and he eventually got what he wanted. Nathan pushed himself away from the wall, wincing in pain, and trudged along after Pickles, who kept a death grip on his hair, pulling as if it were a leash.

He actually did his best, forcing one foot in front of the other until he simply couldn’t anymore, and no amount of shoving or pulling, or even slapping, which Pickles resorted to, could make Nathan take another step. He had to stop, had to rest. He was so tired. Without saying or hearing much of anything, the singer slumped back against the nearest building and slid down against it.

Pickles crouched down, begging him to get up, but the words were slurred and distant. He just needed to rest, couldn’t the drummer see that? It would be okay if he could just sleep, just get his strength back. 

Pickles ground his teeth, "You son of a bitch, get up! Yer nat leavin’ me!" He startled at the low thrum of a motor and fell silent, looking past Nathan to where the road they were on intersected a broader avenue. A black off-road vehicle drove past slowly, and Pickles yelped when he realized who was driving it.

" _Charlie!_ "

Ofdensen jammed his heel into the ATV’s brake pedal. He was sure he’d heard someone yelling. As he opened the door, he heard it again, much clearer.

"Charlie!" Pickles was running up behind the vehicle, white as a ghost and smeared with blood. Charles hopped out to meet the drummer, catching the redhead in an awkward, panicked embrace. Pickles wheezed in his arms, "Charlie! Help… Nate!"

"Where?" Pickles gestured as he got into the ATV, and Charles drove back to where the frontman was sitting on the ground, pink foam dripping from his ashy lips. He was dazed, but still conscious, still clutching at the sucking bullet wound.

"H..ghk… Hey Ofden… sen." Nathan grinned.

"Help me get him into the car." Charles wrapped his strong arms around Nathan’s shoulders, and with the drummer’s help, they got the big guy to climb into the back seat. Just as Charles was about to get back into the vehicle, he heard a familiar staccato hum. Both he and Pickles looked up to see the Dethcopter II lift into the soot-filled sky over Mordhaus. 

71

He knew something was wrong as soon as he heard the engines rev to life. There had been no pre-launch announcement, which was unusual enough, but he could tell by how they were sequenced that the person starting the great airship’s rotors was _not_ one of the ship’s pilots.

He also knew that the ship’s crew had been called away to deal with an emergency, something strange was going on, and he was the only one left on board. It wasn’t hard for him to figure out that the ship had been hijacked. These people, they were noisy, unaware, they made it almost too easy for him. There were over a hundred of them on board, but they were too absorbed in their own self-important reveling to notice him as he gathered his weapons and unfastened one of the access grates to the system of air ducts.

He slipped silently along the claustrophobic passage that lead to the airship’s cockpit, watching through the overhead vent. Two rebel pilots, chattering at each other as they guided the Dethcopter II out over the open water beyond the Mordhaus hangars.

They were so clumsy with his beloved Dethcopter! The entire ship lurched as they lifted her from the pad like some enormous ungainly bird, rather than the majestic steel dragon _he_ knew she was.

As he quietly pulled the vent up and slipped down into the cockpit, one of the pilots turned and gasped at the sight of him. His maniac grin, the wretchedness of his face struck horror into the rebel’s heart, and just as swiftly, stainless steel struck into that heart as well. He drew the blade out smoothly in a rush of blood, letting the hijacker fall to the floor. 

Before the other pilot could do much more than turn around and scream, the gruesome entity that had once been a five-star chef had slit his throat like a fine piece of tenderloin.

As a final breath gurgled out of the pilot’s body, Jean-Pierre laughed, shoving the cyclic control forward and wedging the dead man’s leg behind it, sending the huge flying machine tilting into the sea.


	15. Sunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goin' down!

Part Fifteen: Sunk

72

Outside the smoke-enshrouded gates of Mordhaus, Dethklok’s remaining troops assembled and waited for orders. The walls encircling the compound were well-built, sturdy and tall, with an edging of razor-wire. It would take far more firepower than they had with them to make even a significant dent. And even though they could have sent a few men over the walls with ropes and wire cutters, it became increasingly obvious that they’d have to deal with the maelstrom of smoke and fire where the great doors once stood. 

The generals conferred, developed a plan. The larger ATVs came equipped with shovels, and soon every able hand was working, digging, hefting loads of earth and water to cover the hot, stinking wreckage, building up a mound of mud and rocks. If Dethklok’s army couldn’t go through the gates, they’d go over them.

With their numbers, the Klokateers built effectively and quickly, quelling the smoke as the earthen bridge took shape, and letting the air gradually clear. The gruesome scene on the other side elicited a few shocked gasps when the front phalanx took it in. 

Orders were given as the army poured over the muddy ramp into Mordhaus. The troops had been prepared for battle, to respond to an identifiable crisis… but there was nothing left to fight. Nothing but drying blood and dead hoods and the hasty retreat of carrion-eating beasts.

73

Nathan slowly reemerged from unconsciousness, like a fresh Polaroid slowly sharpening into an image. His body felt numb and heavy, his eyelids leaden, mouth dry, sticky, unpleasant. He was only distantly aware of the monotonous hiss of the ventilator pushing air into his good lung; that he hadn’t been breathing on his own. 

He tried to move, but found that he’d been strapped to the bed, the upper half of which was slightly inclined. Nathan became aware of a dull ache on his side, and glancing down blearily he could make out a patchwork of blood and bandages covering the right side of his chest, a slender tube coming from just below his pectoral muscle. 

He remembered choking, tasting blood… Walking in pain, traveling through endless corridors of sunlight and shadow. It was all so blurry, distant. How had he gotten here? Nathan gazed at the familiar wallpaper, patterned curtains swaying in the draft from an open window. 

The singer flexed his hands, willed himself to remember how to work them. His fingers were icy cold from the chilled intravenous fluids, the joints felt thick and stiff. How long had he been here? It could have been hours or days, he had no way to know, everything seemed so indistinct and unimportant, like a half-remembered movie.

He groped around for the button that would summon a nurse, hoping it was positioned somewhere he could reach, and then exhaling in relief when he found it. He pressed it several times, impatiently, and watched the door until someone opened it.

The pretty brunette who arrived was sheepish and excited, and Nathan grunted. He didn’t want to deal with a fan, but he figured he should play nice. She was practically beaming, just so thrilled to be at his side. "Good evening, Mr. Explosion." 

"Hey… Who are you?"

Figuring he was still dazed, the girl spoke slowly, "I’m your nurse, my name is Indira."

"I’m Nathan… So you can call me that. Uh, can you like, unstrap me?"

"Of course, Nathan. But only if you don’t try to get up. You’re hooked up to a lot of special machines, and it’ll be very bad if you rip those tubes out of your body. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, okay, don’t move." He nodded and let his head fall back, surprised at how much the brief interaction tired him out. 

The nurse bent over him to unfasten his arms, and Nathan glanced appreciatively down the front of her shirt. She smirked as she straightened up, as if she’d noticed, and through the sedative haze the singer smiled at her, studying her. Slim, curly black hair, tan skin, and striking, richly golden eyes. She was cute, maybe even worth a tumble. Her hand brushed against his, small and slightly callused from hard work…

Pickles. Nathan’s mind suddenly flashed back to his drummer, his best friend, his lover… The feel of the redhead’s smooth body, beneath him, against him, held to his as he ran in fear… The thunder of bombs going off, streets strewn with stinking corpses, sunlight gleaming off a gun muzzle, the snap of a human neck… Everything came flooding back.

74

The ravens rose in noisy protest as a snarling machine the same colourless shade as their feathers drove almost recklessly through their midst. There had been no sign of Paolo, and Rebecca’s heart raced in the grip of panic. He had to be here somewhere, and she would not leave without him. Guiding the sleek motorcycle through the narrow streets and alleys, searching, hoping. She was too afraid to call his name, knowing she was still being hunted, so she whispered it, chanted it under her breath.

Eventually the bike ran out of fuel, and she had to abandon it and continue on foot. Tired, sweating, the blackened grease in her hair had begun to run, drawing grimy grey trails down both sides of her face. She wiped at the rivulets with the backs of her arms until they too were oily and smudged, but she didn’t care how she looked. Paolo. She had to find him. Get him out. They’d escape from Mordhaus together, meet up with the hijacked airship… and then they would destroy everything in Dethklok’s mighty fortress.

The fantasy drove her, as it had driven her from the day she’d come out of her coma. Paolo’s sister, Linda, was a nurse at the Cinco clinic, a clever woman, she had gotten herself assigned to Rebecca as soon as she knew the blonde actress had been admitted. Linda was the one who’d kept it quiet when Rebecca woke up, keeping it out of the news, even preventing the superstar’s own parents from realizing their daughter was awake. The nurse had approached Rebecca, appealing to the other woman’s anger, her hunger for revenge. . In hushed conversations she facilitated their plans, secretly relaying information between the actress and her brother. By the time she had called Ofdensen’s office, the young Miss Nightrod already knew her part in this unfolding drama.

Still, there was no sign of Paolo, and this play could not go on without him. Rebecca felt dread overtake her, and every dark-haired, swarthy corpse she passed morphed into her lover. There were so many of them; so many dead. And when she stopped, overwhelmed, staring around at the bodies, already stinking and bloating in the August heat, Rebecca became aware that she was not alone.

The yard wolves watched the woman lazily, their hunger sated, muzzles still red from their feast, they wouldn’t have cared about some skinny human wandering aimlessly by, if it weren’t for the sudden change in demeanor that swept over her when she saw them. The fresh scent of fear was somehow irresistible, and the scruffy beasts rose to their feet, moving to encircle the woman. Watching her with intelligent chartreuse eyes, grinning maws full of mirthful teeth. Here was a nice new toy for them to play with. 

75

__

Six hours earlier

It didn’t take long for the people aboard the Dethcopter II to realize they were in deep shit. The entire ship lurched and tilted, sending a few unfortunate souls tumbling, screaming and clawing, down toward the doomed vessel’s bow. As the floor inclined, those still standing scrambled for purchase, holding on to anything that would hold, pelted by loose objects that clattered down around them, following their less fortunate comrades into oblivion.

Ben tried his best, yelling at his followers to pull each other toward the walls and brace for the crash, but even the walls weren’t safe. The interior of the Dethcopter II, like all of the world’s most brutal Metal band’s modes of transportation, sported a plethora of spiky, pointy, and otherwise sharp ornamentation, which basically meant that the interior decor functioned much like a very large food processor when the vessel shifted. 

The massive machine plunged through the bay’s shallow water and hit solid rock at nearly full speed, shattering its hull and letting the chill sea pour in. The airship groaned and shuddered as something deep within it went up in an eruption of fire, filling the bowels of the ship with smoke. There was nothing the people aboard could do but cling to each other and hold on amid the screaming of metal shearing against metal, the deafening roar as the lower levels flooded and burst upon each other.

Several of the rebels made their way to one of the low-facing doors and leapt into the water, only to find themselves in an icy vortex as the steel behemoth lurched to the side, its rotors churning into the sea and dragging those would-be escapees to their death.

When the airship finally came to rest, its deadly blades brought to a splintering halt against the stone sea floor, a few brave souls tried to make a break for shore. Striking out through reeking waters fouled by the machine’s blood. Fluids that were unfortunately highly flammable, and when the licking flames reached the fissured fuel tanks, the resultant explosion ignited the entire surface of the sea surrounding the Dethcopter II, transforming it into a sheet of blue-white light. Needless to say, none of the swimmers got far.

Billowing smoke and heat drove the survivors to climb back up into the airship, which was pitch-black once the power had been cut. The air inside was nearly as toxic and thick as outside, but as they felt their way up, higher into the enormous vessel’s belly, they found it easier to breathe. Still, they knew if they stayed there, they would eventually suffocate in the wretched darkness.

Ben knew a little bit about the ship, he’d worked on it a couple of times, and he knew there was a roof hatch. He just had to remember where it was. The uppermost level of the ‘copter had plenty of windows, so there was enough light to see where they were going, but they were already choking on the noxious air by the time the large blond rebel led the remaining members of his crew out onto the vessel’s sloping back. The rotors that hadn’t been damaged by the crash were still turning slowly, but the fuel lines had melted, and there was no longer anything powering them but their own inertia. 

Ben coughed and took a quick head count. He’d lost at least twenty more people, many of them civilians, people who had been angry, but young and full of potential… simply snuffed out; burned, buried, destroyed, drowned in the sea. And now, the rest of them were far from safe. Surrounded by black pillars rising all around them, trapped on the back of a dying monster, even if they survived the crash, it was only a matter of time before the rest of Ofdensen’s army arrived. And Ben knew, as they all did, that the only law of Mordland was death.

76

Conferring with his generals, Ofdensen had learned that the Adversaries had managed to obliterate fully a third of his forces. The Klokateer body count numbered towards the thousand mark, and now, three times that many live soldiers stood attentively before him, all of them ready to kill at their leader’s command.

But Charles had other plans.

"The Dethcopter II went down about half a mile from shore. Anyone who survived the crash could potentially swim back to land. We need to get there before they do." The manager’s hazel eyes narrowed coldly behind his glasses. "Avoid using deadly force, if possible. Especially the Nightrod girl, I want her alive."

77

Pickles stood over Toki’s bed, with Skwisgaar and Murderface flanking him. They’d finally been allowed to see the injured Norwegian. The surgeons had spent hours setting the broken bones of his ribcage, and Toki’s body was a mess of bandages and braces to keep him from moving, deep, green-tinged bruises blooming between the dressings. The young man still had not woken up.

"The doctorsch don’t know when he’ll wake up." Murderface turned to the drummer, "Or if he’ll wake up. And Skwisgaar…"

Pickles turned to regard the lead guitarist, who had been standing there in silence the entire time. "Skwisgaar?" It was as if the tall Swede wasn’t even aware of his presence, was aware of nothing but Toki. The look on the blond’s face was so desolate, it hurt to look at, and Pickles edged away from him slightly.

"Yeah, he’sch been fucked up like that schince they found Toki."

"Oh. I um, I’m sarry, Skwisgaar… C’mahn dood, talk ta us." Pickles raised a hand to touch the taller man, but decided it would probably not be taken well. He shoved the hand in his pocket and looked down uncomfortably, "If Toki doesn’t wake up, he’ll be real hard t’replace in da band."

Murderface hunched slightly, "Picklesh, if he doeschn’t wake up… are we gonna have to, you know, pull the plug on him?"

An angry barking yell startled the other two musicians, "No!" Skwisgaar had suddenly snapped to alertness, face turning red with fury, "Yous not goingks to kill him! Never! I do not cares if he does not wakes up!"

The bassist took a step back, "Okay dude, just… yeah, we can keep him here, it’sch fine."

Pickles watched the blond man intently, searching his long face for something he could understand. When the guitarist seemed to calm down a little, he tried again, asking in a soft tone, "Skwisgaar? What’s goin’ on here?"

"…Not’ingks, okay? I justs, you knows… " He sighed, bowing his head, letting his pale hair drape over his face. "He is my friend. He tries so hard to makes me like him, and I never lets him be my friend. I never… haves somebody wantingks me to like dems. Nobody cares like that, ever, before."

"We ain’t supposed t’care about each other, we had an agreement."

"But we dos anyway." Skwisgaar looked at the drummer, defying him to argue. Pickles just nodded, shrugged and patted the tall guitarist on the shoulder.

Murderface eyed his two conscious bandmates, not wanting to add to the conversation, feeling uncomfortable enough with it. 

"He says sometinks to me one time." Skwisgaar continued, "And I did not wants to say, but, he is right. He says, I play de fastests guitar in de world, buts… he is de one who gots de passion for it. I tells him, you know, you pays for passion by sloppies playingks, but he knows de trut’." He leaned over the injured man’s still form, "Maybe you is nots such a great guitar player, but Toki… yous a good musician."

As the three of them turned to leave, Murderface looked up at Skwisgaar and asked in an incredulous tone, "Hey… about Toki being a good musician… did you acschually mean that?"

Skwisgaar smirked, but another voice answered before him, weak and cracked: "Fucks you, Moidaface."


	16. Straw Houses, Stone Haus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The LAST chapter!
> 
> Everything gets wrapped up, isn't that nice?

Part Sixteen: Straw Houses, Stone Haus.

78

It had been dawn when the attack on Mordhaus had begun, and the sun had just slipped below the horizon in the West when it ended. Large black boats arrived, churning through the black water around the Dethcopter II. 

Ben and his surviving crew, some fifty-odd exhausted human beings, surrendered almost without incident. A few jumped into the sea, preferring to choose their own method of destruction, but most of the Adversaries had already accepted their fate. They didn’t even bother to fight back as they were shackled with zip-ties and led onto the boats. 

As the rebels were taken away from the smoking wreck, their stocky blond leader worried… Why hadn’t they been killed outright? Whatever they were being kept alive for, he was certain it would be worse than death.

Sitting at the boat’s aft end, a Gear with a general’s insignia spoke quietly into his com unit.

"…She’s not here, sir."

Ofdensen made a dissatisfied sound at the other end, "Did you search the Dethcopter for her?"

"It’s too dangerous to search the Dethcopter, sir, the entire thing is on fire, it could go up at any moment."

"Damn. Well if she’s in there, I guess it’s safe to say she won’t make it out?"

The Gear paused for a moment, "Yes, if she is in there, sir."

Charles pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Why don’t you ask our guests if she was on board?" He could hear garbled voices and a dull thump, then another. Then more talking in heated tones…

"They say she’s dead, sir."

Charles considered that. "Very well. Thank you general, bring them home."

"Yes sir."

Hanging up, Charles smirked dryly. He hadn’t survived to get to where he was by being thick.

79

As the Klokateers’ boats rumbled toward the smoking carcass of the Dethcopter, a single figure struggled to solid ground, emerging upon the rocky shore with a vicious, wicked look on his face. He stumbled inelegantly back toward the hangar, pausing to pick up a cold, half-smoked cigarette with a quick thank you to whatever God was responsible for waterproof lighters.

Jean-Pierre leaned against hangar door, looking out across the water, he exhaled a lungful of dirty American tobacco as he watched the rebellion end. He chuckled, a sound like a coffee maker percolating. "Zose ignorant pigfuckers. Dey never going to try zat again." 

80

He’d fallen asleep, he realized, because he’d just woken up. His nurse, Indira, was standing over him, gently talking to him.

"Nathan, mister Pickles is here, he wants to see you. I told him you were sleeping, but he’s insisting. Do you want to let him in?"

Blinking, still hazy, but considerably less so than he’d been earlier, he nodded, "Yeah… Thanks." The nurse nodded and left the room.

The drummer came in a few minutes later, wearing a grey hoodie, with his hair tied back. "Hey chief, dey told me ya woke up. How ya feelin’?"

"Like I got shot." Nathan smiled tiredly.

"Dey givin’ ya enough morphine? Cos I can adjust yer dosage if…"

Nathan waved a hand, the one without an IV catheter in it. "No, no, it’s fine… just… what happened?"

Pickles looked down, eyes sliding away briefly, "Ya killed th’ guy who shot ya… and then we walked for a while, pretty damn good and lost. And uh, just before ya passed out, it was a fuckin’ miracle. Charlie just drove right past me-"

"Charlie?"

"Yeah, uh, Ofdensen, you know. And I got him to stop and we brought you back… and… fuck, Nate, I was scared." Pickles touched Nathan’s arm, smiling at him fondly.

"I’m a tough bastard."

"Yeah, ya sure are… So… uh, I kinda gat th’ low-down from Charlie an’ Murderface. And… aw dood, it’s really… I dunno how ta even say dis, but it was yer ex-girlfriend."

Nathan just blinked, "Seriously?"

"Honest ta gahd. I mean I know some chicks take a breakup hard, but she recruited a fuckin’ army and stormed da place. Killed almost a third of the Klokateers… Blew up a lot of stuff… stole the big Dethcopter… crashed it." 

"Holy shit… "

"I think it’s over, they pretty much fucked themselves when the ‘copter went down." Pickles frowned, "I guess ya should know, Toki got hurt pretty badly when dey blew up da rec center."

"Oh… that’s really bad, poor kid." Nathan looked up with genuine concern.

"Yeah, dood, I know." Pickles rubbed Nathan’s arm gently, "He woke up while you were still in surgery, but he’s out of it again. His doctors fixed him up, so I guess he’ll be okay."

Nathan was quiet for a while, enjoying his friend’s soft touch. Eventually he made a small choking sound and sank down into the bed. "This is my fault."

"Hell no it’s nat… she’s a psycho, Nate. Whatever she did, it ain’t yer fault." 

"I brought her here…"

"Gahd, don’t. Jest listen t’me." Pickles leant down and kissed Nathan’s cheek. The singer tilted his head up, seeking the drummer’s lips and was rewarded. When he opened his mouth, Pickles ran the barbell in his tongue along the backs of Nathan’s teeth, making the big guy shiver and moan softly. Right, that. He’d almost forgotten about that.

It ended too soon, dragging Nathan out of a moment where he could ignore the pain in his chest and arms. Pickles drew back and stroked a callused hand over his black hair. "Get better quick, all these wires n’ tubes n’ shit are a bummer."

"Yeah, totally."

81

She swung the shovel down again, narrowly missing her target, and making another furrow in the asphalt. Her arms ached, too weak to properly handle the heavy implement, and the wolves danced out of her way each time she struck out. They had her surrounded, backed her up into a corner. They were toying with her, wearing her out, but content to keep their distance. 

One by one, they’d dart in, duck away from the flailing shovel, skittering back again. It was great fun until Rebecca finally managed to connect with one of the lanky beasts, drawing a yip and a snarl as the edge of the shovel dug into the wolf’s flank. Suddenly, they weren’t playing anymore.

Snarling, teeth bared, the lead wolf stalked toward the blonde woman, body low, eyes on the shovel in her hands. As if in tandem communication, two of the other canines flanked her, drawing Rebecca’s attention in three directions. No matter which way she swung, she was exposing herself to the others. The rest of the pack stood back in waiting, anticipation gleaming in their yellow eyes.

She screamed when the lead wolf leapt at her, raising the shovel up to fend him off. Her scream was punctuated by a loud retorting crack as the wolf’s jaws connected with the shovel handle, pushing her back against the stone building with the weight of him. Hot blood sprayed across Rebecca’s hands and face, and the beast dropped at the woman’s feet, a large hole having suddenly appeared in the animal’s head.

Another shot sent the rest of the pack scurrying for their lives, and the actress looked up at the armed hoods striding into the plaza and moving to surround her much as the wolves had done.

"Drop the shovel, ma’am, and come with us." Six rifle muzzles held Rebecca Nightrod in their sights. She let the implement drop from her hands. Her rebellion was over.

82

Two days later.

Charles hung up his phone, snapping it shut and slipping it into his jacket pocket. The conversation had gone well, and soon everything would be resolved.

He sat back in his plush leather recliner, sipping from a broad-mouthed snifter, indulging in a little of the very good, very expensive cognac he kept hidden in his floor safe. Savoring the syrupy richness as the fluid drew legs down the glass. Charles hadn’t felt so relaxed in weeks, and he relished the reason as much as the liquor. 

Rebecca was his now, held in a cage like a wild animal, and that’s how he saw her. Venomous, dangerous, untamed. It was heady to think about the plans he had for her, so intense, so _right_ , he could imagine her screams already… Charles smiled, finally tasting vengeance and finding it delicious.

Damn good cognac.

83

Toki opened his eyes to see Nathan standing over him in a fleece hospital gown, "Hallo Nat’ans."

"Hey lil’ guy, how’re yuh doing?" 

The Norwegian smiled tiredly, "Coulds be betters. I’s hurt a lot… nots so bad right now but I tinks because of de menthols." He gestured at the morphine drip.

"Yer ganna be okey, though, th’ doc said ya just need t’rest." Pickles appeared in Toki’s field of vision next to the big singer. Toki liked seeing the affectionate way the drummer leant close to Nathan, it gave a sense of relief that was so very welcome.

"It’s over." Nathan looked at the floor, "We all made it. I mean, except for the Klokateers, a bunch of them died, but we made it. The guys who did this are either dead or… I don’t know."

"Th’ ones deat didn’t get killed when th’ Dethcopter went down were captured alive, Ofdensen’s gat ‘em somewhere, I dunno what’s ganna happen to ‘em, but it’s prahb’ly better nat t’ask."

"I don’ts cares about dem. Bunch of dildos. I hopes da robot electrocutes dem all." Toki made a sour face, feeling the ache in his chest each time he took a breath. He was tough, he’d known pain before, this wasn’t even the first time he’d had bones broken… but these people had tried to kill him without even _knowing_ him.

Nathan kept looking at the ground, then looking at the guitarist, his features knotted with guilt, "Toki. I won’t blame you if you get pissed at me, but you need to know. It was Rebecca, she did this. I mean, not all of it, there were lots of people and like bombs and shit, but she was like, the leader."

"Don’ts care, Nat’ans. She deads?"

"No… I… don’t know what’s going to happen to her."

"She’s locked up too, Toki. Charlie’s keepin’ her where he ken see her. He’s gahtta do sahmthin’ wit’ her. Hope it’s soon, I hate havin’ her here.

A grumbled "Me too." 

"Ja, me toos." Toki sighed, eyes lidding.

"Dey’re still rebuildin’ the rec room, it’s ganna be a while til’ we gat a place t’hang out, but hopefully by th’ time yer better, we’ll have a nice new hot tub an’ some better arcade games for ya."

Nathan grinned, "Yeah, new games, and a bigger TV, and a whirlpool hot tub." He looked down at the injured guitarist, but Toki had fallen back into sleep. He turned to look at Pickles. "We should probably let him rest."

"We should probably let _you_ rest, too." Pickles held the door open and let Nathan pass him, noticing how the singer hunched slightly toward the small device clipped to his belt that kept his damaged lung from collapsing. He sighed, the big guy was putting on a good show, but he knew it probably hurt.

"I don’t want to, I’ve been in bed for days… it sucks." Nathan walked slowly, but was still heading back to his own bed. He felt Pickles’ hand against his back as he pushed the door open to his own private room.

"Cahm on, Nate, I’ll help ya get t’sleep."

84

So far, it hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. It hadn’t been _good_ , either, they were still prisoners, but they weren’t being tortured or killed or even starved. The worst part, in all honesty, was the waiting.

The cells, which were crowded to accommodate the surviving Adversaries, were in a part of Mordhaus Ben had never been in, and hadn’t known existed. Oddly clean and lacking in the complex’s customary Metal-themed accoutrements, nothing but bare cinderblock walls and waxy flourescent lighting up above.

The Rebel’s only surviving leader sat on his thin cot and prodded at his unappetizing meal with a plastic spoon. They might be getting fed, but not very well. He put the styrofoam plate aside and hunched over glumly, looking at his cellmates. 

One of the bombmakers was among them, and he spoke up when he saw Ben looking at him, "Hey, ‘Becca’s still out there, maybe she got out. She could…"

"I don’t think she got out, Miles." Ben sighed, "I don’t think anyone got out."

"Don’t talk like that, we have to have hope." Miles looked up as the thick iron door to their cell swing open. 

A trio of armed hoods blocked the door. One of them pointed at Miles, and the other two descended upon the hapless man, grasping him by the arms and dragging him out, deaf to his kicking and yelling.

Ben watched sadly, there was nothing he could do without being shot, which would have been pointless. Miles was the third to go, the rebel leader knew, he’d heard the same commotion twice from the other cells. The hoods were going to keep whittling them down, one by one… When the door closed again, the thick sound of the deadbolts sliding into place a grim punctuation, Ben muttered a single hoarse word.

"Hope."

85

The world’s fastest guitarist and most brutal bassist had been spending a lot of time together since the attack. Ofdensen had left Murderface in charge, and he’d felt responsible for keeping Skwisgaar company, talking to him to keep his mind off Toki. 

Over time, even though he’d never admit it, Murderface began to enjoy the conversations, discovering the Swede to be more complex than he’d expected. Skwisgaar had always been so superficial, like he wasn’t capable of caring or thinking about anything but his guitar and his beautiful self. And he was still pretty shallow, but now there was more visible beneath that. A pain, old and aching, that Murderface could identify with. It was also really… nice, just to have someone listen to him without dismissing him or making jokes.

They sat across the kitchen table, drinking beer and watching television. It was a comforting, safe place for both of them. The bassist looked up when he saw their mutilated chef shuffle past. "Where the fuck have _you_ been?"

"My apologies, my lords. Zere was ah, business I needed to attend to." Jean-Pierre grinned hideously. "I shall make you ze luncheon, yes?" Murderface nodded curtly, and the chef drifted off to get to work.

Skwisgaar huffed and slouched in his chair, "So, I’s saying, I am workingks at Österåker, for de summers, at de castles tours, is very populars for tourists den. I hears a lots deys is haunted castles, so I goes one night, by myselfs. Awake all night, pfft, no ghosts!"

"Dude, that’sch a ripoff. I’d demand my money back!"

"Ja! And I also gets in trouble de nexts day because I am so tired to work."

"Yeah well, one time I did schee a ghoscht, I juscht about pisscht my pantsch. Honescht to God."

"Fff, dere is no God."

"Schut up and let me tell the schtory…"

86

They arrived the next morning. A white van pulled up in front of the building, and Ofdensen was standing out front to greet them, as businesslike as always.

"Doctor, gentlemen. Please, come in." He guided his guests to his office, offered brandy, which was declined, as he’d expected. The conversation was concise and businesslike. Paperwork exchanged hands, and a human life became property. 

He needed to watch, it wouldn’t be the same if he didn’t. A Klokateer unlocked the door and stepped aside, two other hoods stood nearby, their weapons at the ready. Charles waited with his arms folded and a knife-sharp look on his face. 

The orderlies took their charge, and Ofdensen could hear her screaming and struggling in vain. She was brought to him, hands fastened behind her back, hair hanging in greasy dirty ratlocks. She looked up at him, teeth clenched and eyes rabid. She hadn’t been broken yet. And he liked knowing that… it only made this sweeter.

"Goodbye, Rebecca." Charles smirked coldly as the burly white-clad men put her in the padded back of their vehicle. The manager turned to the doctor and took him aside.

"Everything is in order, then?"

"Everything. And thank you for this opportunity."

Charles took his glasses off and wiped them, "Indeed." He paused, replacing the eyewear. "And my request regarding the recording of her, ah, progress?"

"Oh, that will be no problem, it’s already been set up. You’ll receive your first report in a week."

The manager smiled evilly, "I can’t wait."

The van drove away, and Ofdensen descended to the lowest level of the prison building to talk to the head of the team working there.

They spoke in the close, cluttered office, a space filled with dusty filing cabinets and piles upon piles of records. "How are they working out?"

"Very good, sir. The collars are as effective as we’d hoped" The Klokateer general nodded, his expression hidden by his hood. "They work hard and they don’t fight back. There shouldn’t be any problems."

"Good, very good. How long before you’ve got them all on the roster?"

"Two or three weeks, if they’re all as easy as the first bunch."

Charles looked at the papers the hood had given him, there were a lot of names on the list, and the rebels who’d been ‘rehabilitated’, as they called it, were ticked off in green. This was working out quite well, the manager thought, there was a lot of work to be done to restore Mordhaus, and after losing so many good Klokateers, having over fifty strong, broken-in slaves would really help things along.

87

Pickles drew the thin plastic blinds over the small window and locked the door, providing a moment of privacy. He sat down next to Nathan’s bed and took the big man’s hand, "How’re ya doin’ with th’ pain, chief?"

"It’s not too bad, I’m just… ugh." Nathan put his hand over his face and grumbled wordlessly, "I want to get up and do stuff, but I’m tired. I can’t sleep, but I’m tired."

"Restless, I know." The drummer gently squeezed Nathan’s hand, then climbed up onto the bed. "Yer gonna get discharged in a couple more days."

"Ugh… too long. How long have I been here? A week?"

"Four days." Pickles leant down and kissed the singer’s jaw, "Too long." He put his hands on Nathan’s shoulders and trailed his lips up to the other man’s, finding them responsive. No matter what, his lover was always willing.

Nathan was more than happy to have Pickles kiss him, it was distracting, took his mind off the ache and the nasty sound of the little machine connected to his abused body. His drummer was so careful, light and deft with his skilled hands, stroking away his anxiety until they settled at the waistband of his too-soft hospital-issue pajama pants.

Nathan gasped when the redhead slid away from his mouth, "Is that… can we do this?"

"I won’t hurt ya." Pickles smirked as he wrapped his hand around the singer’s dick and stroked it to full rigidity and eliciting a soft moan in response. "It’s been too long fer me, too." The drummer pushed himself down the length of the bed, leaving light fire-bright kisses along the edge of Nathan’s hip.

It couldn’t have been better. Need tore at Nathan, he wanted all of it, comfort, pleasure, a reaffirmation of life. He groaned when Pickles’ pierced tongue stroked the underside of his cock, making him jerk his hips.

"Shhh." Pickles breathed over the tender organ, "Gatta keep still… An’ quiet, dey ken hear ya."

Nathan made a small frustrated sound and stuffed part of his blanket into his mouth, letting his eyes slide shut and moaning into the fabric when his bandmate went down again. Oh, this was good, even the desperate struggle for self-control couldn’t take away from how amazing it felt. That little metal bead hitting all the right spots, sending sensation jolting through him as though it were hooked up to a car battery.

Feeling the muscles flexing in his bandmate’s thighs, Pickles purred against the flesh in his mouth, curling his tongue around it as he curled his fingers under the singer’s balls, kneading gently at the soft, sensitive place there until he could hear wet fabric squeaking between teeth. Nathan was gnawing holes in the blanket, which was just encouragement as far as the drummer was concerned.

The pleasure was interwoven with increasing pain as his body shuddered and tried to breathe deeper than he was capable of, but Nathan was too far gone to pay much attention to it, moaning into the blanket as his peak swiftly approached. Pickles could tell, and he drew his head back, then plunged down deep, taking as much as he could for the singer’s climax. He moaned softly around the thick shaft as he felt the big guy tense, swallowing against Nathan’s glans as the singer shot his load down the back of Pickles’ throat.

Sore and drained, Nathan slumped back and spit out the mutilated blanket. His chest burned with each breath, but he didn’t give a fuck about that or anything else.

Pickles sat up, wiping the back of his arm across his mouth and grinning smugly. "Ganna get sahm sleep now?"

Dethklok’s frontman, the most dark, evil, cruel and animalistic singer in the world, had a ridiculously sappy look on his face as he nodded tiredly, letting his drummer put him back in his silly pajama pants and pull the blanket down over him.

He didn’t even notice Pickles leave.

88

A week later, Toki was discharged from the hospital. He would need to wear a chest brace for about another month, but he was up and about, and in good spirits (partially thanks to his constant painkiller regimen.) The Norwegian was smiling when he joined his bandmates in the temporary makeshift entertainment area that had been set up in what had been a smaller meeting room.

Pickles, Nathan, and Skwisgaar were sitting and watching television, Murderface was trying to figure out how to use his new laptop, the old one having been destroyed. The new flatscreen, which had been spared the meathook treatment so far, and thus displayed a much clearer picture than they were used to, was showing one of those game shows that involved people getting hurt and humiliated and covered in repulsive substances. Quality programming.

Nathan grinned at Toki and patted the new couch, which looked a lot like the old couch, but was missing the familiar pattern of stains and knifemarks. The singer looked like himself again, the only evidence of his ordeal being some tenderness and a couple of fresh scars under his black shirt. Beside him, Pickles raised his beer to congratulate Toki for pulling through, genuinely happy for the guy.

Skwisgaar watched Toki as the other guitarist settled between him and Nathan, a broad grin on the blond’s face. "Ah, my little friend comes home at lasts."

"Ja, whys you smiles at me likes t’at?"

"Because I am owningks you now. I saveds your life, you know dat?"

"Dey tells me in hospitable." Toki chuckled, taking it as a joke until he noticed the Swede’s face had gone stony serious. "Um, I’s very gratesfuls, Skwisgaar. You ams my hero."

"Damns straight." Skwisgaar glared, then the pretense broke and he chuckled, knuckling his friend in the arm. "You owes me."

"Ja, I owes you!"

Pickles raised an eyebrow, he’d heard from Murderface that the two guitarists were getting along, but he’d never quite believed it until he saw it. Even William himself had been oddly amicable lately. It was a little weird, but it was nice, even if it wasn’t exactly Metal. Pickles wondered how long it would last.

89

The report arrived as had been promised, and Charles looked through it leisurely until he found the unlabeled minidisk tucked between the pages. Ah, he’d been waiting for this. Leaving the paperwork on his desk, he closed the curtains and locked the door to his quarters. This was the sort of thing that necessitated privacy.

He might have been ashamed at how excited he was, but he’d long ago accepted his own dark side. Charles opened the cabinet doors and slipped the disk into the player, settling back into his desk chair to watch. The images and sounds washed over him, as brutal as the music his band made, and even more melodic to his ears. The feelings it evoked in the man were grotesque, twisted, and slightly erotic, the euphoria of absolute power.

It was even more intense than he’d imagined, vivid and exquisite and real. Knowing every moment of it, every scream and tear was honest, a glimmer of truth from the deceitful actress. He couldn’t help but laugh.

When the recording ended, leaving him with a buzz of satisfaction, Ofdensen reflected on how much it had cost to make this happen. Dethklok now owned the Cinco clinic, and every doctor in it danced at the CFO’s whim. It had been worth every penny.

90

Deep in the psychiatric wing of the Cinco Clinic of Long Island, Rebecca Nightrod had a little padded room with bars on the windows and no sheets on her bed. She was insane, according to everyone except herself. A raving lunatic, they’d said, unreasonable, delusional.

Oh, she’d tried to reason with them, she did her best to stay calm, sound rational, she wasn’t crazy. She knew exactly what was going on, but nothing she said or did would get anyone to listen to her. The futility of it crushed down around her like the claustrophobic walls of her room, and she spent days curled up and weeping as her spirit slowly crumbled.

On the recommendation of her doctor, she’d been put on a schedule of tranquilizers and shock therapy. Very painful shock therapy, for which the orderlies had insisted upon shaving her head. It was humiliating, and Rebecca wondered if that was their only reason for doing it.

And during one of these sessions, in between agonizing jolts, she looked up and saw the glinting lense capturing every horrific moment. "W-why… why is there a c-camera?!"

"There’s no camera, Miss Nightrod. You’re just hallucinating again." The voice had the same soft, mollifying tone they always used on her: the one that said they knew she was crazy, but it was okay, everything was okay.

But it wasn’t okay. She wasn’t crazy, and she wasn’t hallucinating. She could see it right there, the cold shine of glass. They were lying to her, and she knew what it meant.

Ofdensen. This was his revenge, she was suffering how he’d wanted her to suffer. The once-powerful celebrity broke down, knowing absolutely that there was no escape. This was the hell he’d built for her, and for the rest of her life, there’d be nothing but torturous ‘treatments’ and the sad-eyed pity of people who would never listen to her, never see her as anything but a tragedy. 

Rebecca Nightrod would forever be at the mercy of the Machine, and it would grind her between its gears until there was nothing left but dust…

And then they’d grind the dust.

Fin.


End file.
